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A  DUET 

WITH  AN  OCCASIONAL  CHORUS 


. 


BY 


A.  CONAN  DOYLE 

AUTHOR  OF  UNCLE  BERNAC : 

A  MEMORY  OF  THE  EMPIRE 
RODNEY  STONE,  THE  EX¬ 
PLOITS  OF  BRIGADIER  GERARD 
THE  STARK  MUNRO  LETTERS 
ROUND  THE  RED  LAMP,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

1916 


.  • 

* 

% 

4 

V/  1 


'' 


CONTENTS 


PAOS 

I.— The  overture . 1 

II. — The  overture  (continued)  .  ...  9 

III.  — The  overture  (concluded)  .  ,  *  .  24 

IV.  — The  two  solos . 34 

V. — Britain’s  Valhalla . 48 

VI. — Two  solos  and  a  duet  .  ....  71 

VII. — Keeping  up  appearances . 89 

VIII. — The  home-coming . 101 

IX. — Laying  a  course . 114 

X. — Confessions . 131 

I 

XI. — Concerning  Mrs.  Beeton . 150 

XII.— Mr.  Samuel  Pepys . 162 

XIII.  — A  visit  to  Mr.  Samtjf.l  Pepys  ....  174 

XIV. — Trouble . 189 

XV.— A  rescue . 209 

XVI. — The  Browning  Society  .  .  .  .  .  223 

XVII. — An  investment . 241 

XVIII. — A  THUNDERCLOUD . 256 

XIX.— Danger . 275 

XX. — No.  5,  Cheyne  Row . 296 

XXI. — The  last  note  of  the  duet  ....  317 

XXII.— The  trio . 333 

vii 


•» . 

\ 

f 


A  DUET. 


THE  OVERTURE. 

I. 

ABOUT  THAT  DATE. 

These  are  the  beginnings  of  some  of  the  let¬ 
ters  which  they  wrote  about  that  time: 

Woking,  May  20th. 

My  dearest  Maude  :  You  know  that  your 
mother  suggested  and  we  agreed  that  we  should 
be  married  about  the  beginning  of  September. 
Don’t  you  think  that  we  might  say  the  3d  of 
August?  It  is  a  Wednesday,  and  in  every  sense 
suitable.  Do  try  to  change  the  date,  for  it  would 
in  many  ways  be  preferable  to  the  other.  I  shall 
be  eager  to  hear  from  you  about  it.  And  now, 
dearest  Maude  .  .  .  (The  rest  is  irrelevant.) 

St.  Albans,  May  22d. 

My  dearest  Frank:  Mother  sees  no  objection 

to  the  3d  of  August,  and  I  am  ready  to  do  any- 

1 


2 


A  DUET. 


tiling  which  will  please  you  and  her.  Of  course, 
there  are  the  guests  to  be  considered,  and  the  dress¬ 
makers,  and  other  arrangements,  but  I  have  no 
doubt  that  we  shall  be  able  to  change  the  date  all 
right.  O  Frank!  .  .  .  (What  follows  is  beside 
the  point.) 

Woking,  May  25th. 

My  dearest  Maude  :  I  have  been  thinking 
over  that  change  of  date,  and  I  see  one  objection 
which  had  not  occurred  to  me  when  I  suggested  it. 
August  the  1st  is  bank  holiday,  and  travelling  is 
not  very  pleasant  about  that  time.  My  idea  now 
is,  that  we  ought  to  bring  it  off  before  that  date. 
Fancy,  for  example,  how  unpleasant  it  would  be 
for  your  uncle  Joseph  if  he  had  to  travel  all  the 
way  from  Edinburgh  with  a  bank  holiday  crowd! 
It  would  be  selfish  of  us  if  we  did  not  fit  in  our 
plans  so  as  to  save  our  relatives  from  inconvenience. 
I  think,  therefore,  taking  everything  into  consid¬ 
eration,  that  the  20th  of  July,  a  Thursday,  would 
be  the  very  best  day  that  we  could  select.  I  do 
hope  that  you  will  strain  every  nerve,  my  darling, 
to  get  your  mother  to  consent  to  this  change. 
When  I  think  ...  (A  digression  follows.) 

St.  Albans,  May  27th. 

My  dearest  Frank:  I  think  that  what  you 
say  about  the  date  is  very  reasonable,  and  it  is 


THE  OVERTURE. 


3 


so  sweet  and  unselfish  of  you  to  think  about  Uncle 
Joseph.  Of  course,  it  would  be  very  unpleasant 
for  him  to  have  to  travel  at  such  a  time,  and  we 
must  strain  every  nerve  to  prevent  it.  There  is 
only  one  serious  objection  which  my  mother  can 
see.  Uncle  Percival  (that  is  my  mother’s  second 
brother)  comes  back  from  Rangoon  about  the  end 
of  July,  and  will  miss  the  wedding  (O  Frank! 
think  of  its  being  our  wedding!)  unless  we  delay 
it.  Fie  has  always  been  very  fond  of  me,  and  he 
might  be  hurt  if  we  were  married  so  immediately 
before  his  arrival.  Don’t  you  think  it  would  be 
as  well  to  wait?  Mother  leaves  it  all  in  your  hands, 
and  we  shall  do  exactly  as  you  advise.  O  Frank! 
.  .  .  (The  rest  is  confidential.) 

Woking,  May  29th. 

My  own  Dearest:  I  think  that  it  would  be 
unreasonable  upon  the  part  of  your  uncle  Percival 
to  think  that  we  ought  to  have  changed  the  date 
of  a  matter  so  important  to  ourselves  simply  in 
order  that  he  should  be  present.  I  am  sure  that 
on  second  thoughts  your  mother  and  yourself  will 
see  the  thing  in  this  light.  I  must  say,  however, 
that  in  one  point  I  think  you  both  showed  great 
judgment.  It  would  certainly  be  invidious  to  be 
married  immediately  before  his  arrival.  I  really 
think  that  he  would  have  some  cause  for  complaint 


4 


A  DUET. 


if  we  did  that.  To  prevent  any  chance  of  hurting 
his  feelings,  I  think  that  it  would  be  far  best,  if 
your  mother  and  you  agree  with  me,  that  we  should 
be  married  upon  July  7th.  I  see  that  it  is  a  Tues¬ 
day,  and  in  every  way  suitable.  When  I  read  your 
last  letter  .  .  .  (The  remainder  is  unimportant.) 

St.  Albans,  June  1st. 

My  dearest  Frank:  I  am  sure  that  you  are 
right  in  thinking  that  it  would  be  as  well  not  to 
have  the  ceremony  too  near  the  date  of  Uncle 
Percival’s  arrival  in  England.  We  should  be  so 
sorry  to  hurt  his  feelings  in  any  way!  Mother 
has  been  down  to  Madame  Mortimer’s  about  the 
dresses,  and  she  thinks  that  everything  could  be 
hurried  up  so  as  to  be  ready  by  July  7th.  She 
is  so  obliging,  and  her  skirts  do  hang  so  beauti¬ 
fully!  O  Frank!  it  is  only  a  few  weeks’  time, 
and  then  .  .  . 

Woking,  June  3d. 

My  own  darling  Maude:  How  good  you  are 
— and  your  mother  also — in  falling  in  with  my 
suggestions!  Please,  please  don’t  bother  your  dear 
self  about  dresses.  You  only  want  the  one  travel¬ 
ling  dress  to  be  married  in,  and  the  rest  we  can 
pick  up  as  we  go.  I  am  sure  that  white  dress  with 
the  black  stripe — the  one  you  were  playing  ten¬ 
nis  in  at  the  Arlington’s — would  do  splendidly. 


THE  OVERTURE. 


5 


You  looked  simply  splendid  that  day!  I’m  inclined 
to  think  that  it  is  my  favourite  of  all  your  dresses, 
with  the  exception  of  that  dark  one  with  the  light- 
green  front.  That  shows  otf  your  figure  so  splen¬ 
didly!  I  am  very  fond  also  of  the  gray  Quaker- 
like  alpaca  dress.  What  a  little  dove  you  do  look 
in  it!  I  think  those  dresses,  and,  of  course,  your 
satin  evening  dress,  are  my  favourites.  On  sec¬ 
ond  thoughts,  they  are  the  only  dresses  I  have 
ever  seen  you  in.  But  I  like  the  gray  best,  be¬ 
cause  you  wore  it  the  first  time  I  ever —  You 
remember!  You  must  never  get  rid  of  those 
dresses.  They  are  too  full  of  associations.  I  want 
to  see  you  in  them  for  years  and  years  and  years. 

What  I  wanted  to  say  was  that  you  have  so 
many  charming  dresses  that  we  may  consider  our¬ 
selves  independent  of  Madame  Mortimer.  If  her 
things  should  be  late,  they  will  come  in  very  use¬ 
fully  afterward.  I  don’t  want  to  be  selfish  or  in¬ 
considerate,  my  own  dearest  girlie,  but  it  would 
be  rather  too  much  if  we  allowed  my  tailor  or 
your  dressmaker  to  be  obstacles  to  our  union.  I 
just  want  you — your  dainty  little  self — if  you  had 
only  your  “  wee  coatie,”  as  Burns  says.  ‘Now, 
look  here!  I  want  you  to  bring  your  influence 
to  bear  upon  your  mother,  and  so  make  a  small 
change  in  our  plans.  The  earlier  we  can  have  our 


6 


A  DUET. 


honeymoon  the  more  pleasant  the  hotels  will  be. 
I  do  want  your  first  experiences  with  me  to  be 
without  a  shadow  of  discomfort.  In  July  half 
the  world  starts  for  its  holiday.  If  we  could  get 
away  at  the  end  of  this  month,  we  should  just 
be  ahead  of  them.  This  month,  this  very  month! 
Oh,  do  try  to  manage  this,  my  own  dearest  girl! 
The  30tli  of  June  is  a  Monday,  and  in  every  way 
suitable.  They  could  spare  me  from  the  office 
most  excellently.  This  would  just  give  us  time 
to  have  the  banns  three  times,  beginning  with  next 
Sunday.  I  leave  it  in  your  hands,  dear.  Do  try 
to  work  it. 

St.  Albans,  Junt  4th. 

My  dearest  Frank:  We  nearly  called  in  the 
doctor  after  your  dear  old  preposterous  letter.  My 
mother  gasped  upon  the  sofa  while  I  read  her  some 
extracts.  That  I,  the  daughter  of  the  house, 
should  be  married  in  my  old  black-and-white  ten¬ 
nis  dress  which  I  wore  at  the  Arlington’s  to  save 
my  nice  one!  Oh,  you  are  simply  splendid  some¬ 
times  !  And  the  learned  way  in  which  you  alluded 
to  my  alpaca!  As  a  matter  of  act,  it’s  a  merino; 
but  that  doesn’t  matter.  Fancy  your  remember¬ 
ing  all  my  wardrobe  like  that!  And  wanting  me 
to  wear  them  all  for  years!  So  I  shall,  dear,  se¬ 
cretly,  when  we  are  quite,  quite  alone.  But  they 


THE  OVERTURE. 


7 


are  all  out  of  date  already,  and  if  in  a  year  or  so 
you  saw  your  poor  dowdy  wife  with  tight  sleeves 
among  a  room  full  of  puff-shouldered  young  ladies, 
you  would  not  be  consoled  even  by  the  memory 
that  it  was  in  that  dress  that  you  first  .  .  .  you 
know ! 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  must  have  my  dress  to 
be  married  in.  I  don’t  think  mother  would  re¬ 
gard  it  as  a  legal  marriage  if  I  hadn’t,  and  if  you 
knew  how  nice  it  will  be  you  would  not  have  the 
heart  to  interfere  with  it.  Try  to  picture  it:  Sil¬ 
ver  gray — I  know  how  fond  you  are  of  grays — a 
little  white  chiffon  at  neck  and  wrists,  and  the 
prettiest  pearl  trimming.  Then  the  hat  en  suite — 
pale  gray  lisse,  white  feather,  and  brilliant  buckle. 
All  these  details  are  wasted  upon  you,  sir,  but  you 
will  like  it  when  you  see  it.  It  fulfils  your  ideal 
of  tasteful  simplicity,  which  men  always  imagine 
to  be  an  economical  method  of  dressing  until  they 
have  wives  and  milliners’  bills  of  their  own. 

And  now  I  have  kept  the  biggest  news  to  the 
last.  Mother  has  been  to  madame,  and  she  says 
that  if  she  works  all  night  she  will  have  every¬ 
thing  ready  for  the  30th.  O  Frank!  does  it  not 
seem  incredible?  Next  Monday  three  weeks! 
And  the  banns!  Oh,  my  goodness,  I  am  fright¬ 
ened  when  I  think  about  it!  Dear  old  boy,  you 


8 


A  DUET. 


won’t  tire  of  me,  will  you?  What  should  I  do 
if  I  thought  you  had  tired  of  me!  And  the 
worst  of  it  is  that  you  don’t  know  me  a  bit.  I 
have  a  hundred  thousand  faults,  and  you  are 
blinded  by  your  love  and  can  not  see  them.  But 
then  some  day  the  scales  will  fall  from  your  eyes, 
and  you  will  perceive  the  whole  hundred  thousand 
at  once.  Oh,  what  a  reaction  there  will  be!  You 
will  see  me  as  I  am — frivolous,  wilful,  idle,  petu¬ 
lant,  and  altogether  horrid.  But  I  do  love  you, 
Frank,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  and  mind  and 
strength,  and  you’ll  count  that  on  the  other  side, 
won’t  you?  Now,  I  am  so  glad  I  have  said  all  this, 
because  it  is  best  that  you  should  know  what  you 
should  expect.  It  will  be  nice  for  you  to  look  back 
and  to  say,  “  She  gave  me  fair  warning,  and  she 
is  no  worse  than  she  said.”  O  Frank!  think  of 
the  30th! 

P.  S. — I  forgot  to  say  that  I  had  a  gray  silk 
cape  lined  with  cream  to  go  with  the  dress.  It  is 
just  sweet! 

So  that  is  how  they  arranged  about  the  date. 


/ 


THE  OVERTURE  {continued). 

II. 

IN  MINOR  KEY. 


i 


Woking,  June  7th. 

My  own  dearest  Maude  :  How  I  wisli  you 
were  here,  for  I  have  been  down,  down,  down,  in 
the  deepest  state  of  .despondency  all  dayl  I  have 
longed  to  hear  the  sound  of  your  voice,  or  to  feel 
the  touch  of  your  hand.  How  can  I  be  despond¬ 
ent  when  in  three  weeks  I  shall  be  the  husband 
of  the  dearest  girl  in  England?  That  is  what  I 
ask  myself,  and  then  the  answer  comes  that  it  is 
just  exactly  on  that  account  that  my  wretched 
conscience  is  gnawing  at  me.  I  feel  that  I  have 
not  used  you  well,  Maude;  I  owe  you  reparation, 
and  I  don’t  know  what  to  do. 

In  your  last  dear  letter  you  talk  about  being 

frivolous.  You  have  never  been  frivolous.  But 

I  have  been  frivolous,  for,  ever  since  I  have  learned 

to  love  you  I  have  been  so  wrapped  up  in  my  love, 

with  my  happiness  gilding  everything  about  me, 

that  I  have  never  really  faced  the  prosaic  facts  of 
2  9 


10 


A  DUET. 


life,  or  discussed  with  you  what  our  marriage  will 
really  necessitate.  And  now  at  this  eleventh  hour 
I  realize  that  I  have  led  you  on  in  ignorance  to 
an  act  which  will  perhaps  take  a  great  deal  of  the 
sunshine  out  of  your  life.  What  have  I  to  offer 
you  in  exchange  for  the  sacrifice  which  you  will 
make  for  me?  Myself,  my  love,  and  all  that  I 
have.  But  how  little  it  all  amounts  to!  You  are 
a  girl  in  a  thousand — in  ten  thousand — bright, 
beautiful,  sweet,  the  dearest  lady  in  all  the  land. 
And  I  an  average  man — or  perhaps  hardly  that — 
with  little  to  boast  of  in  the  past,  and  vague  am¬ 
bitions  for  the  future.  It  is  a  poor  bargain  for 
you,  my  sweet  Maude,  a  miserable  bargain.  You 
have  still  time.  Count  the  cost,  and  if  it  be  too 
great,  then  draw  back  even  now  without  fear  of 
one  word  or  inmost  thought  of  reproach  from  me. 
Your  whole  life  is  at  stake.  How  can  I  hold  you 
to  a  decision  which  was  taken  before  you  realized 
what  it  meant?  How,  I  will  place  the  facts  be¬ 
fore  you,  and  then,  come  what  may,  my  conscience 
will  be  at  rest,  and  I  will  be  sure  that  you  are  act¬ 
ing  with  your  eyes  open. 

You  have  to  compare  your  life  as  it  is  and 
as  it  will  be.  Your  father  is  rich — or  at  least  com¬ 
fortably  off — and  you  have  been  accustomed  all 
your  life  to  have  whatever  you  desired.  From 


THE  OVERTURE. 


11 


what  I  know  of  your  mother’s  kindness  I  should 
imagine  that  no  wish  of  yours  has  ever  remained  un¬ 
gratified.  You  have  lived  well,  dressed  well,  have 
a  sweet  home,  a  lovely  garden,  your  collie,  your 
canary,  your  maid.  Above  all,  you  have  never  had 
anxiety,  never  had  to  worry  about  the  morrow. 
I  can  see  all  your  past  life  so  well!  In  the  mornings 
your  music,  your  singing,  your  gardening,  your 
reading.  In  the  afternoons  your  social  duties,  the 
visit,  and  the  visitor.  In  the  evening,  tennis,  a 
walk,  music  again,  your  father’s  return  from  the 
city,  the  happy  family  circle,  with  occasionally 
the  dinner,  the  dance,  and  the  theatre.  And  so 
smoothly  on,  month  after  month,  and  year  after 
year,  your  own  sweet,  kindly,  joyous  nature  and 
your  bright  face  making  every  one  round  you 
happy,  and  so  reacting  upon  your  own  happiness. 
"Why  should  you  bother  about  money?  That  was 
your  father’s  business.  Why  should  you  trouble 
about  housekeeping?  That  was  your  mother’s 
duty.  You  lived  like  the  birds  and  the  flowers, 
and  had  no  need  to  take  heed  for  the  morrow. 
Everything  which  life  could  offer  was  yours. 

And  now  you  must  turn  to  what  is  in  store 
for  you  if  you  are  still  content  to  face  the  future 
with  me.  Position  I  have  none  to  offer.  What  is 
the  exact  position  of  the  wife  of  the  assistant  ac- 


12 


A  DUET. 


countant  of  the  Co-operative  Insurance  Office?  It 
is  indefinable.  What  are  my  prospects?  I  may 
become  head  accountant.  If  Hinton  died — and 
I  hope  he  won’t,  for  he  is  an  excellent  fellow — I 
should  probably  get  his  berth.  Beyond  that  I  have 
no  career.  I  have  some  aspirations  after  literature 
— a  few  critical  articles  in  the  monthlies — but  I 
don’t  suppose  they  will  ever  lead  to  anything  of 
consequence. 

And  my  income  four  hundred  pounds  a  year, 
with  a  commission  on  the  business  I  introduce. 
But  that  amounts  to  hardly  anything.  You  have 
fifty  pounds.  Our  total,  then,  is  certainly  under 
five  hundred  pounds.  Have  you  considered  what 
it  will  mean  to  leave  that  charming  house  at  St. 
Albans,  the  breakfast  room,  the  billiard  room, 
the  lawn,  and  to  live  in  the  little  fifty-pound-a- 
year  house  at  Woking,  with  its  two  sitting  rooms 
and  pokey  garden.  Have  I  a  right  to  ask  you  to 
do  such  a  thing?  And,  then,  the  housekeeping, 
the  planning,  the  arranging,  the  curtailing,  the 
keeping  up  appearances  upon  a  limited  income! 
I  have  made  myself  miserable  because  I  feel  that 
you  are  marrying  me  without  a  suspicion  of  the 
long,  weary,  uphill  struggle  which  lies  before  you. 
O  Maude!  my  darling  Maude,  I  feel  that  you 
sacrifice  too  much  for  me!  If  I  were  a  man,  I 


THE  OVERTURE. 


13 


should  say  to  you:  “  Forget  me,  forget  it  all!  Let 
our  relations  be  a  closed  chapter  in  your  life.  You 
can  do  better.  I  and  my  cares  come  like  a  great 
cloud  bank  to  keep  the  sunshine  from  your  young 
life.  You  who  are  so  tender  and  dainty!  How 
can  I  bear  to  see  you  exposed  to  the  drudgery  and 
sordid  everlasting  cares  of  such  a  household!  I 
think  of  your  graces,  your  pretty  little  ways,  the 
elegancies  of  your  life,  and  how  charmingly  you 
carry  them  off!  You  are  born  and  bred  for  just 
such  an  atmosphere  as  the  one  which  you  breathe. 
And  I  take  advantage  of  my  good  fortune  in  win¬ 
ning  your  love  to  drag  you  down,  to  take  the  beauty 
and  charm  from  your  life,  to  fill  it  with  small  and 
sordid  cares,  never  ending  and  soul-killing.  Selfish 
beast  that  I  am,  why  should  I  allow  you  to  come 
down  into  the  stress  and  worry  of  life  when  I  found 
you  so  high  above  it!  And  what  can  I  offer  you 
in  exchange?  ”  These  are  the  thoughts  which  come 
back  and  back  all  day,  and  leave  me  in  the  black¬ 
est  fit  of  despondency.  I  confessed  to  you  that  I 
had  dark  humours,  but  never  one  so  hopeless  as 
this.  I  never  wish  my  worst  enemy  to  be  as  un¬ 
happy  as  I  have  been  to-day. 

Write  to  me,  my  own  darling  Maude,  and  tell 
me  all  you  think,  your  very  inmost  soul  in  this 
matter.  Am  I  right?  Have  I  asked  too  much 


14 


A  DUET. 


of  you?  Does  the  change  frighten  you?  You 
will  have  this  in  the  morning,  and  I  should  have 
my  answer  by  the  evening  post.  I  will  meet  the 
postman.  IIow  hard  I  will  try  not  to  snatch  the 
letter  from  him  or  to  give  myself  away!  Wilson 
has  been  in,  worrying  me  with  foolish  talk  while 
my  thoughts  were  all  of  our  affairs.  He  worked 
me  up  into  a  perfectly  homicidal  frame  of  mind, 
hut  I  hope  that  I  kept  on  smiling  and  was  not  un- 
courteous  to  him.  I  wonder  which  is  right — to  be 
polite  but  hypocritical,  or  to  be  inhospitable  but 
honest. 

Good-bye,  my  own  dearest  sweetheart — all  the 
dearer  when  I  feel  that  I  may  lose  you.  Ever 
your  devoted  Frank. 

St.  Albans,  June  8th. 

Frank,  tell  me  for  Heaven’s  sake  what  your 
letter  means!  You  use  words  of  love,  and  yet 
you  talk  of  parting.  You  speak  as  if  our  love  was 
a  thing  which  we  might  change  or  suppress.  O 
Frank!  you  can  not  take  my  love  away  from  me. 
You  don’t  know  what  you  are  to  me,  my  heart, 
my  life,  my  all.  I  would  give  my  life  for  you, 
willingly,  gladly — every  beat  of  my  heart  is  for 
you.  You  don’t  know  what  you  have  become  to  me. 
M  y  every  thought  is  yours,  and  has  been  ever  since 


THE  OVERTURE. 


15 


that  night  at  the  Arlington’s.  My  love  is  so  deep 
and  strong  it  rules  my  whole  life,  my  every  action 
from  morning  to  night.  It  is  the  very  breath  and 
heart  of  my  life — unchangeable.  I  could  not  alter 
my  love  any  more  than  I  could  stop  my  heart  from 
beating.  How  could  you,  could  you  suggest  such 
a  thing!  I  know  that  you  really  love  me  just  as 
much  as  I  love  you,  or  I  would  not  open  my  heart 
like  this.  I  should  be  too  proud  to  give  myself 
away.  But  I  feel  that  pride  is  out  of  place  when 
any  mistake  or  misunderstanding  may  mean  life¬ 
long  misery  to  both  of  us.  I  would  only  say  good¬ 
bye  if  I  thought  your  love  had  changed  or  grown 
less.  But  I  know  that  it  has  not.  Oh,  my  darling, 
if  you  only  knew  what  terrible  agony  the  very 
thought  of  parting  is  you  would  never  have  let 
such  an  idea  even  for  an  instant  on  any  pretext 
enter  your  mind !  The  very  possibility  is  too  awful 
to  think  of.  When  I  read  your  letter  just  now  up 
in  my  room,  I  nearly  fainted.  I  can’t  write.  O 
Frank!  don’t  take  my  love  away  from  me.  I  can’t 
bear  it.  Oh,  no,  it  is  my  everything!  If  I  could 
only  see  you  now,  I  know  that  you  would  kiss  these 
heart-burning  tears  away.  I  feel  so  lonely  and 
tired!  I  can  not  follow  all  your  letter.  I  only 
know  that  you  talked  of  parting,  and  that  I  am 
weary  and  miserable.  Maude. 


16 


A  DUET. 


(Copy  of  telegram.) 

From  Frank  Crosse  to  Miss  Maude  Selby ,  The  Laurels,  St. 

Albans : 

Coming  up  eight  fifteen.  Arrive  midnight. 

June  10th. 

How  good  of  you,  dear  old  boy,  to  come  racing 
across  two  counties  at  a  minute’s  notice  simply  in 
order  to  console  me  and  clear  away  my  misunder¬ 
standings!  Of  course,  it  was  most  ridiculous  of 
me  to  take  your  letter  so  much  to  heart,  but  when 
I  read  any  suggestion  about  our  parting  it  upset 
me  so  dreadfully  that  I  was  really  incapable  of  rea¬ 
soning  about  anything  else.  Just  that  one  word 
“  Part  ”  seemed  to  be  written  in  letters  of  fire 
right  across  the  page  to  the  exclusion  of  everything 
else.  So  then  I  wrote  an  absurd  letter  to  my  boy, 
and  the  dear  came  scampering  right  across  the 
south  of  England,  and  arrived  at  midnight  in  the 
most  demoralized  state.  It  was  just  sweet  of  you 
to  come,  dear,  and  I  shall  never  forget  it. 

I  am  so  sorry  that  I  have  been  so  foolish,  but 
you  must  confess,  sir,  that  you  have  been  just  a 
little  bit  foolish  also.  The  idea  of  supposing  that 
when  I  love  a  man  my  love  can  be  affected  by  the 
size  of  his  house  or  the  amount  of  his  income!  It 
makes  me  smile  to  think  of  it.  Do  you  suppose 
a  woman’s  happiness  is  affected  by  whether  she  has 


THE  OVERTURE. 


17 


a  breakfast  room,  or  a  billiard  board,  or  a  collie 
dog,  or  any  of  the  other  luxuries  which  you  enu¬ 
merated  (although  you  will  have  to  take  old  Rob 
for  better  for  worse  along  with  his  mistress).  But 
these  things  are  all  the  merest  trimmings  of  life. 
They  are  not  the  essentials.  You  and  your  love 
are  the  essentials.  Some  one  who  will  love  me 
with  all  his  heart.  Some  one  whom  I  can  love  with 
all  my  heart.  Oh,  the  difference  it  makes  in  life! 
How  it  changes  everything!  It  glorifies  and  beau¬ 
tifies  everything.  I  always  felt  that  I  was  capable 
of  a  great  love,  and  now  I  have  it. 

Fancy  your  imagining  that  you  had  come  into 
my  life  in  order  to  darken  it!  Why,  you  are  my 
life.  If  you  went  out  of  it,  what  would  be  left? 
You  talk  about  my  happiness  before  1  met  you, 
but,  oh,  how  empty  it  all  was!  I  read  and  played 
and  sang  as  you  say,  but  what  a  void  there  was!  I 
did  it  to  please  mother,  but  there  really  seemed 
no  very  clear  reason  why  I  should  continue  to  do 
it.  Then  you  came,  and  everything  was  changed. 
I  read  because  you  were  fond  of  reading,  and  be¬ 
cause  I  wanted  to  talk  about  books  with  you.  I 
played  because  you  aro  fond  of  music.  I  sang  in 
the  hope  that  it  might  please  you.  Whatever  I 
did,  you  were  always  in  my  mind.  I  tried  and 
tried  to  become  a  better  and  nobler  woman  be- 


18 


A  DUET. 


cause  I  wanted  to  be  worthy  of  the  love  you  bore 
me.  I  have  changed  and  developed  and  improved 
more  in  the  last  three  months  than  in  all  my  life 
before.  .And  then  you  come  and  tell  me  that  you 
have  darkened  my  life!  You  know  better  now. 
My  life  has  become  full  and  rich,  for  Love  fills 
my  life.  It  is  the  keynote  of  my  nature,  the 
foundation,  the  motive  power.  It  inspires  me  to 
make  the  most  of  any  gift  or  talent  that  I  have. 
How  could  I  tell  you  all  this  if  I  did  not  know  that 
your  own  feeling  was  so  deep?  I  could  not  have 
given  the  deep,  great,  and  only  love  of  mv  life  in 
exchange  for  a  half-hearted  affection  from  you. 
But  you’ll  never  again  make  the  mistake  of  sup¬ 
posing  that  any  material  consideration  can  affect 
our  love. 

And  now  we  won’t  be  serious  any  longer. 
Dear  mother  was  very  much  astounded  by  your 
tumultuous  midnight  arrival,  and  equally  precipi¬ 
tate  departure  next  morning.  Dear  old  boy,  it  was 
so  nice  of  you!  But  you  won’t  ever  have  horrid 
black  humours  and  think  miserable  things  any 
more,  will  you?  But  if  you  must  have  dark  days, 
now  is  your  time,  for  I  can’t  possibly  permit  any 
after  the  30th.  Ever  your  own 

Maude. 


THE  OVERTURE. 


19 


Woking,  June  11th. 

Mt  own  dearest  Girlie  :  How  perfectly  sweet 
.  you  are!  I  read  and  reread  your  letter,  and  I  un¬ 
derstand  more  and  more  how  infinitely  your  na¬ 
ture  is  above  mine.  And  your  conception  of  love 
- — liow  lofty  and  unselfish  it  is!  How  could  I 
lower  it  by  thinking  that  any  worldly  thing  could 
be  weighed  for  an  instant  against  it!  And  yet  it 
was  just  my  jealous  love  for  you  and  my  keen¬ 
ness  that  you  should  never  be  the  worse  through 
me  which  led  me  to  write  in  that  way,  so  I  will 
not  blame  myself  too  much.  I  am  really  glad  that 
the  cloud  came,  for  the  sunshine  seems  so  much 
brighter  afterward.  And  I  seem  to  know  you  so 
much  better,  and  to  see  so  much  more  deeply  into 
your  nature !  I  knew  that  my  own  passion  for  you 
was  the  very  essence  of  my  soul — oh,  how  hard  it 
is  to  put  the  extreme  of  emotion  into  the  terms  of 
human  speech! — but  I  did  not  dare  to  hope  that 
your  feelings  were  as  deep.  I  hardly  ventured  to 
tell  even  you  how  I  really  felt.  Somehow  in  these 
days  of  lawn  tennis  and  afternoon  tea  a  strong, 
strong  passion — such  a  passion  as  one  reads  of  in 
books  and  poems — seems  out  of  place.  I  thought 
that  it  would  surprise,  even  frighten  you,  perhaps, 
if  I  were  to  tell  you  all  that  I  felt.  And  now  you 
have  written  me  two  letters  which  contain  all  that 


80 


A  DUET. 


I  should  have  said  if  I  had  spoken  from  my  heart. 
It  is  all  my  own  inmost  thought,  and  there  is  not  a 
feeling  that  I  do  not  share.  O  Maude!  I  may 
write  lightly  and  speak  lightly  perhaps  sometimes, 
but  there  never  was  a  woman — never,  never,  in 
all  the  story  of  the  world — who  was  loved  more 
passionately  than  you  are  loved  by  me.  Come 
what  may,  while  the  world  lasts  and  the  breath  of 
life  is  between  my  lips  you  are  the  one  woman  to 
me.  If  we  are  together,  I  care  nothing  what  the 
future  may  bring.  If  we  are  not  together,  all  the 
world  can  not  fill  the  void. 

You  say  that  I  have  given  an  impulse  to  your 
life ;  that  you  read  more,  study  more,  take  a  keener 
interest  in  everything.  You  could  not  possibly 
have  said  a  thing  which  could  have  given  me  more 
pleasure  than  that.  It  is  splendid.  It  justifies  me 
in  aspiring  to  you.  It  satisfies  my  conscience  over 
everything  which  I  have  done.  It  must  be  right 
if  that  is  the  effect.  I  have  felt  so  happy  and  light¬ 
hearted  ever  since  you  said  it!  It  is  rather  absurd 
to  think  that  I  should  improve  you ,  but  if  you  in 
your  sweet  frankness  say  that  it  is  so,  why,  I  can 
only  marvel  and  rejoice. 

But  you  must  not  study  and  work  too  hard. 
You  say  that,  you  do  it  to  please  me;  but  that  would 
not  please  me.  I’ll  tell  you  an  anecdote  as  a  dread- 


THE  OVERTURE.  ,  21 

ful  example:  I  had  a  friend  who  was  a  great  lover 
of  Eastern  literature,  Sanskrit  and  so  on.  He  loved 
a  lady.  The  lady  to  please  him  worked  hard  at 
these  subjects  also.  In  a  month  she  had  shattered 
her  nervous  system,  and  will  never  be  the  same 
again.  It  was  impossible.  She  was  not  meant  for 
it,  and  yet  she  made  herself  a  martyr  over  it.  I 
don’t  mean  by  this  parable  that  it  will  be  a  strain 
upon  your  intellect  to  keep  up  with  mine.  But  I 
do  mean  that  a  woman’s  mind  is  different  from  a 
man’s.  A  dainty  rapier  is  a  finer  thing  than  a 
hatchet,  but  it  is  not  adapted  for  cutting  down  trees 
all  the  same. 

Rupton  Hale,  the  architect,  one  of  the  few 
friends  I  have  down  here,  has  some  most  deplor¬ 
able  views  about  women.  I  played  a  round  of  the 
Byfleet  golf  links  with  him  upon  Wednesday 
afternoon,  and  we  discussed  the  question  of  wom¬ 
en’s  intellects.  He  would  have  it  that  they  have 
never  a  light  of  their  own,  but  are  always  the  re¬ 
flectors  of  some  other  light  which  you  can  not  see. 
He  would  allow  that  they  were  extraordinarily 
quick  in  assimilating  another  person’s  views,  but 
that  was  all,  I  quoted  some  very  shrewd  remarks 
which  a  lady  had  made  to  me  at  dinner.  “  That’s 
the  traces  of  the  last  man,”  said  he,  According 
to  his  preposterous  theory,  you  could  in  conversa- 


22 


A  DUET. 


tion  with  a  woman  reconstruct  the  last  man  who 
had  made  an  impression  on  her.  “  She  will  reflect 
you  upon  the  next  person  she  talks  to,”  said  he.  It 
was  ungallant,  hut  it  was  ingenious. 

Dearest  sweetheart,  before  I  stop  let  me  tell 
you  that  if  I  have  brought  any  happiness  into  your 
life,  you  have  brought  far,  far  more  into  mine. 
My  soul  seemed  to  come  into  full  being  upon  the 
day  when  I  loved  you.  It  was  so  small  and 
cramped  and  selfish  before,  and  life  was  so  hard 
and  stupid  and  purposeless!  To  live,  to  sleep,  to 
eat  for  some  vears,  and  then  to  die — it  was  so 
trivial  and  so  material!  But  now  the  narrow  walls 
seem  in  an  instant  to  have  fallen,  and  a  boundless 
horizon  stretches  around  me.  And  everything  ap¬ 
pears  beautiful.  London  Bridge,  King  William 
Street,  Abcliurch  Lane,  the  narrow  stair,  the  office 
with  the  almanacs  and  the  shining  desks — it  has 
all  become  glorified,  tinged  with  a  golden  haze. 
I  am  stronger;  I  step  out  briskly  and  breathe  more 
deeply.  And  I  am  a  better  man,  too.  God  knows 
there  was  room  for  it!  But  I  do  try  to  make  an 
ideal  and  to  live  up  to  it.  I  feel  such  a  fraud  when 
I  think  of  being  put  upon  a  pedestal  by  you,  when 
some  little  hole  where  I  am  out  of  sight  is  my  true 
place.  I  am  like  the  man  in  Browning  who 
mourned  over  the  spots  upon  his  “  speckled  hide,” 


THE  OVERTURE. 


23 


but  rejoiced  in  the  swansdown  of  his  lady.  And 
so,  my  own  dear,  sweet  little  swansdown  lady, 
good-night  to  you,  with  my  hearth  love  now  and 
forever  from  Your  true  lover, 

Frank. 

Saturday,  Saturday,  Saturday! — oh,  how  I  am 
longing  for  Saturday,  when  I  shall  see  you  again! 
We  will  go  on  Sunday  and  hear  the  banns  together. 
What  fun!  # 


THE  OVERTURE  ( concluded ). 

III. 

St.  Albans,  June  14th. 

My  dearest  Frank:  What  a  dreadful  thing 
it  is  to  have  your  name  shouted  out  in  public !  And 
what  a  voice  the  man  had!  He  simply  bellowed 
“  Maude  Selby,  of  this  parish/’  as  if  he  meant  all 
this  parish  to  know  about  it.  And  then  he  let  you 
off  so  easily!  I  suppose  he  thought  that  there  w7as 
no  local  interest  in  Frank  Crosse,  of  Woking.  But 
when  he  looked  round  expectantly  after  asking 
whether  there  was  any  known  cause  or  just  im¬ 
pediment  why  we  should  not  be  joined  together, 
it  gave  me  quite  a  thrill.  I  felt  as  if  some  one 
would  jump  up  like  a  Jack-in-the-box  and  make 
a  scene  in  the  church.  How  relieved  I  was  when 
he  changed  the  subject!  I  sank  my  face  in  my 
hands,  but  I  know  that  I  was  blushing  all  down 
my  neck.  Then  I  looked  at  you  between  my  fin¬ 
gers,  and  there  you  were  sitting  quite  cool  and 
cheerful,  as  if  you  rather  liked  it.  I  think  that 

we  shall  go  to  evening  service  next  week.  Papa 

24 


THE  OVERTURE. 


25 


has  given  up  going  altogether  since  the  new  organ¬ 
ist  came.  He  says  he  can  not  face  the  music. 

What  a  sweet  time  we  had  together!  I  shall 
never,  never  forget  it!  O  Frank!  how  good  you 
are  to  me !  And  how  I  hope  you  won’t  regret  what 
you  are  doing!  It  is  all  very  well  just  now,  when 
I  am  young  and  you  think  that  I  am  pretty.  I 
love  that  you  should  think  so,  but  I  am  compelled 
to  tell  you  that  it  is  not  really  so.  I  can’t  imagine 
how  you  came  to  think  it!  I  suppose  it  was  from 
seeing  me  so  often  beside  papa.  If  you  saw  me 
near  Helly  Sheridan,  or  any  other  really  pretty 
girl,  you  would  at  once  see  the  difference.  It  just 
happens  that  you  like  gray  eyes  and  brown  hair — 
and  the  other  things,  but  that  does  not  mean  that 
I  am  really  pretty.  I  should  be  so  sorry  if  there 
Avas  any  misunderstanding  about  this,  and  you  only 
found  out  when  too  late.  You  ought  to  keep  this 
letter  for  reference,  as  papa  always  says,  and  then 
it  will  be  interesting  to  you  afterward. 

I  should  like  you  to  see  me  now — or  rather  I 

wouldn’t  have  you  see  me  for  the  world.  I  am 

so  flushed  and  untidy,  for  I  have  been  cooking. 

Is  it  not  absurd,  if  you  come  to  think  of  it,  that 

we  girls  should  be  taught  the  irregular  French 

verbs  and  the  geography  of  China,  and  never  to 

cook  the  simplest  thing?  It  really  does  seem  ridicu- 
3 


26 


A  DUET, 


Ions.  But  it  is  never  too  late  to  mend,  so  I  went 
into  the  kitchen  this  morning  and  made  a  tart. 
You  can’t  imagine  what  a  lot  of  things  one  needs 
even  for  such  a  simple  thing  as  that.  I  thought 
cook  was  joking  when  she  put  them  all  down  in 
front  of  me.  It  was  like  a  conjurer  giving  his  per¬ 
formance.  There  was  an  empty  howl,  and  a  bowl 
full  of  sliced  apples,  and  a  big  board,  and  a  rolling 
pin,  and  eggs,  and  butter,  and  sugar,  and  cloves, 
and,  of  course,  flour.  We  broke  eggs  and  put  them 
into  a  bowl — you  can’t  think  what  a  mess  an  egg 
makes  when  it  misses  the  bowl.  Then  we  stirred 
them  up  with  flour  and  butter  and  things.  I  stirred 
until  I  was  perfectly  exhausted.  No  wonder  a 
cook  has  usually  a  great  thick  arm!  Then  when 
it  had  formed  a  paste  we  rolled  it  out,  and  put  the 
apples  in  the  dish,  and  roofed  it  in,  and  trimmed 
the  edges,  and  stuck  flat  leaves  made  of  paste  all 
over  it,  and  the  dearest  little  crown  in  the  mid¬ 
dle.  Then  we  put  it  in  the  oven  until  it  was 
brown.  It  looked  a  very  nice  tart.  Mamma  said 
that  I  had  made  it  very  solidly.  It  certainly  did 
feel  very  heavy  for  its  size.  Mamma  would  not 
taste  it,  because  she  said  that  she  thought  Dr.  Tris¬ 
tram  would  not  approve  of  her  doing  so;  but  I 
had  a  piece,  and  really  it  was  not  so  bad.  Mamma 
said  the  servants  might  have  it  at  dinner,  but  the 


THE  OVERTURE. 


27 


servants  said  that  the  poor  window-cleaner  had  a 
large  family,  and  so  we  gave  it  to  him.  It  is  so 
sweet  to  feel  that  one  is  of  any  use  to  any  one. 

What  do  you  think  happened  this  morning? 
Two  wedding  presents  arrived.  The  first  was  a 
very  nice  fish  slice  and  fork  in  a  case.  It  was  from 
dear  old  Mrs.  Jones  Beyrick,  on  whom  we  really 
had  no  claim  whatever.  We  all  think  it  so  kind 
of  her  and  such  a  nice  fish  slice.  The  other  was 
a  beautiful  travelling  bag  from  Uncle  Arthur. 
Stamped  in  gold  upon  it  were  the  letters  M.  C. 
I  said:  “  Oh,  what  a  pity!  They  have  put  the 
wrong  initials.”  That  made  mamma  laugh.  I 
suppose  one  soon  gets  used  to  it.  Fancy  how  you 
would  feel  if  it  was  the  other  way  about,  and  you 
changed  your  name  to  mine!  They  might  call 
you  Selby,  but  you  would  continue  to  feel  Crosse. 
I  didn’t  mean  that  for  a  joke,  but  women  make 

4,9 

jokes  without  intending  it.  The  other  day  the 
curate  drove  up  in  his  donkey  cart,  and  mother 
said,  “  Oh,  what  a  nice  tandem!  ”  I  think  that 
she  meant  to  say  “  turnout.”  But  papa  said  it  was 
the  neatest  thing  he  has  heard  for  a  long  time,  so 
mamma  is  well  pleased;  but  I  am  sure  that  she 
does  not  know  even  now  why  it  should  be  so  funny. 

What  stupid  letters  I  write!  Doesn’t  it  fright¬ 
en  you  when  you  read  them,  and  think  that  is  the 


28 


A  DUET. 


person  with  wliom  I  have  to  spend  my  life?  Yet 
yon  never  seem  alarmed  about  it.  I  think  it  is 
so  brave  of  you!  That  reminds  me  that  I  never 
finished  what  I  wanted  to  say  at  the  beginning  of 
this  letter.  Even  supposing  that  I  am  pretty  (and 
my  complexion  sometimes  is  simply  awful),  you 
must  bear  in  mind  how  quickly  the  years  slip  by 
and  how  soon  a  woman  alters.  Why,  we  shall 
hardly  be  married  before  you  will  find  me  full  of 
wrinkles  and  without  a  tooth  in  my  head.  Poor 
boy,  how  dreadful  for  you!  Men  seem  to  change 
so  little  and  so  slowly !  Besides,  it  does  not  matter 
for  them,  for  nobody  marries  a  man  because  he  is 
pretty.  But  you  must  marry  me,  Frank,  not  for 
what  I  look  but  for  what  I  am — for  my  inmost, 
inmost  self,  so  that  if  I  had  nobody  at  all  you 
would  love  me  just  the  same.  That  is  how  I  love 
you;  but  I  do  prefer  you  with  your  body  on,  all 
the  same.  I  don’t  know  how  I  love  you,  dear.  I 
only  know  that  I  am  in  a  dream  when  you  are  near 
me — just  a  beautiful  dream.  I  live  for  those  mo¬ 
ments.  Ever  your  own  little 

Maude. 

P.  S. — Papa  gave  us  such  a  fright,  for  he  came 
in  just  now  and  said  that  the  window-cleaner  and 
all  his  family  were  very  ill.  This  was  a  joke,  be- 


THE  OVERTURE. 


29 


cause  the  coachman  had  told  him  about  my  tart. 
Wasn’t  it  horrid  of  him? 

Woking,  June  17th. 

My  own  sweetest  Maude:  I  do  want  you  to 

come  up  to  town  on  Saturday  morning.  Then  I 

will  see  you  home  to  St.  Albans  in  the  evening, 

and  we  shall  have  another  dear  delightful  week  end. 

I  think  of  nothing  else,  and  I  count  the  hours. 

Now  please  to  manage  it,  and  don’t  let  anything 

stop  you.  You  knowr  that  you  can  always  get 

your  way.  Oh,  yes,  you  can,  miss!  I  know. 

We  shall  meet  at  the  bookstall  at  Charing  Cross 

Railway  station  at  one  o’clock,  but  if  anything 

should  go  wrong,  send  me  a  wire  at  the  National 

Club.  Then  we  can  do  some  shopping  together 

and  have  some  fun  also.  Tell  vour  mother  that 

«/ 

we  shall  be  back  in  plenty  of  time  for  dinner. 
Make  another  tart,  and  I  will  eat  it.  Things  are 
slack  at  the  office  just  now,  and  I  could  be  spared 
for  a  few  days. 

So  you  have  had  a  fish  slice.  It  is  so  strange, 
because  on  that  very  day  I  had  my  first  present, 
and  it  was  a  fish  slice  also.  We  shall  have  fish  at 
each  end  when  we  give  a  dinner.  If  we  get  an¬ 
other  fish  slice,  then  wd  shall  give  a  fish  dinner — 
or  keep  one  of  the  slices  to  give  to  your  friend 
Nelly  Sheridan  when  she  gets  married.  They  will 


30 


A  DUET. 


always  come  in  useful.  And  I  have  had  two  more 
presents.  One  is  a  Tantalus  spirit  stand  from  my 
boss  in  the  office.  The  other  is  a  pair  of  bronzes 
from  the  cricket  club.  They  got  it  up  without 
my  knowing  anything  about  it,  and  I  was  amazed 
when  a  deputation  came  up  to  my  rooms  with  them 
last  night.  “  May  your  innings  be  long  and  your 
partnership  unbroken  until  you  each  make  a  hun¬ 
dred  not  out  ” — that  was  the  inscription  upon  a 
card. 

I’ve  got  something  very  grave  to  tell  you.  I’ve 
been  going  over  my  bills  and  things,  and  I  owe 
ever  so  much  more  than  I  thought.  I’ve  always 
been  so  careless,  and  never  known  exactly  how  I 
stood.  It  did  not  matter  when  one  was  a  bachelor, 
for  one  always  felt  that  one  could  live  quite  sim¬ 
ply  for  a  few  months  and  so  set  matters  straight. 
But  now  it  is  more  serious.  The  bills  come  to  more 
than  a  hundred  pounds.  The  biggest  one  is  forty- 
two  pounds  to  Snell  and  Walker,  the  Conduit 
Street  tailor.  However,  I  am  ordering  my  mar¬ 
riage  suit  from  them,  and  that  will  keep  them  quiet. 
I  have  enough  on  hand  to  pay  most  of  the  others. 
But  we  must  not  run  short  upon  our  honeymoon — 
what  an  awful  idea!  Perhaps  there  may  be  some 
cheques  among  our  presents.  We  will  hope  for 
the  best. 


THE  OVERTURE. 


31 


But  there  is  a  more  serious  thing  upon  which 
I  want  to  consult  you.  You  asked  me  never  to 
have  any  secrets  from  you,  or  else  I  should  not 
bother  you  about  such  things.  I  should  have  kept 
it  for  Saturday  when  we  meet,  but  I  want  you  to 
have  time  to  think  about  it,  so  that  we  may  come 
to  some  decision  then. 

I  am  surety  to  a  man  for  an  indefinite  sum  of 
money.  It  sounds  rather  dreadful,  does  it  not? 
But  it  is  not  so  bad  as  it  sounds,  for  there  is  no 
harm  done  yet.  But  the  question  is,  what  we 
should  do  in  the  future  about  it,  and  the  answer 
is  not  a  very  easy  one.  He  is  a  very  pleasant  fel¬ 
low,  an  insurance  agent,  and  he  got  into  some 
trouble  about  his  accounts  last  year.  The  office 
would  have  dismissed  him,  but,  as  I  knew  his  wife 
and  his  family,  I  became  surety  that  he  would  not 
go  wrong  again,  and  so  I  saved  him  from  losing 
his  situation.  His  name  is  Barintosh.  He  is  one 
of  those  amiable,  weak,  good  fellows  whom  you 
can  not  help  loving,  although  you  never  can  trust 
them.  Of  course,  we  could  give  notice  that  we 
would  not  be  responsible  any  longer,  but  it  would 
be  a  thunderbolt  to  this  poor  family,  and  the  man 
would  certainly  be  ruined.  We  don’t  want  to 
begin  our  own  happiness  by  making  any  one  else 
unhappy,  do  we?  But  we  shall  talk  it  over,  and 


32 


A  DUET. 


I  will  do  what  you  advise.  You  understand  that 
we  are  only  liable  in  case  lie  defaults,  and  surely 
it  is  very  unlikely  that  he  will  do  so  after  the  lesson 
that  he  has  already  had. 

I  think  the  house  will  do  splendidly.  The 
Lindens  is  the  name,  and  it  is  on  the  Maybury 
Road,  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the 
station.  If  your  mother  and  you  could  come  down 
on  Tuesday  or  Wednesday,  I  would  get  a  half  day 
off  and  you  would  be  able  to  inspect  it.  Such  a 
nice  little  lawn  in  front  and  garden  behind!  A 
conservatory,  if  you  please !  Dining  room  and 
drawing-room.  You -van  never  assemble  more  than 
four  or  five  guests.  On  your  at-home  days  we 
shall  put  up  little  placards  as  they  do  outside  the 
theatres:  “  Drawing-room  full”;  “  Dining  room 
full”;  “  Room  in  the  conservatory.”  There  are 
two  good  bedrooms,  one  large  maid’s  room,  and  a 
lumber  room.  One  cook  and  one  housemaid  could 
run  it  beautifully.  Rent  fifty  pounds  on  a  three- 
years’  lease;  with  taxes,  about  sixty-two  pounds. 
I  think  it  was  just  built  for  us.  Rupton  Hale  says 
that  wre  must  be  careful  not  to  brush  against  the 
walls,  and  that  it  would  be  safer  to  go  outside  to 
sneeze — but  that  is  only  his  fun. 

What  a  dull,  stupid  letter!  I  do  hope  that  I 
shall  be  in  good  form  on  Saturday.  I  am  a  man 


THE  OVERTURE. 


33 


of  moods — worse  luck! — and  they  come  quite  re¬ 
gardless  of  how  I  wish  to  be,  or  even  of  how  I 
have  cause  to  be.  I  do  hope  that  I  shall  make 
your  day  bright  for  you — the  last  day  that  we  shall 
have  together  before  the  day.  There  have  been 
times  when  I  have  been  such  bad  company  to  you 
just  when  I  wished  to  be  at  my  best!  But  you 
are  always  so  sweet  and  patient  and  soothing. 
Until  Saturday,  then,  my  own  darling. 

Ever  your  lover, 

Frank. 

P.  S.— I  open  this  to  tell  you  that  such  a 
gorgeous  fish  knife  with  our  monograms  upon  it 
has  just  arrived  from  Mrs.  Preston,  my  father’s 
old  friend.  I  went  to  the  Goldsmith’s  Company 
in  Begent  Street  yesterday  afternoon,  and  I  bought 
— what  do  you  think?  It  looks  so  beautiful  upon 
its  snow-white  cotton  wadding!  I  like  them  pretty 
broad  and  rather  flat.  I  do  hope  you  will  think 
it  all  right  It  fills  me  with  the  strangest  feelings 
when  I  look  at  it.  Come  what  may,  foul  weather 
or  fair,  sorrow  or  joy,  that  little  strip  of  gold  will 
still  be  with  us — we  shall  see  it  until  we  can  see 
no  more. 


P.  P.  S. — Saturday!  Saturday!  Saturday  1 


IV. 


THE  TWO  SOLOS. 

Their  tryst  was  at  tlie  Charing  Cross  book¬ 
stall  at  one  o’clock,  and  so  Mr.  Frank  Crosse  was 
there  at  quarter  past  twelve,  striding  impatiently 
up  and  down,  and  stopping  dead  whenever  a  woman 
came  within  sight,  like  a  pointer  dog  before  a 
partridge.  Before  he  came  he  had  been  haunted 
by  the  idea  that  possibly  Maude  might  have  an 
impulse  to  come  early — and  what  if  she  were  to 
come  and  not  to  find  him  there!  Every  second 
of  her  company  was  so  dear  to  him  that  when 
driving  to  meet  her  he  had  sometimes  changed  from 
one  cab  to  another  upon  the  way,  because  the  sec¬ 
ond  seemed  to  have  the  faster  horse.  But  now  that 
he  was  on  the  ground,  he  realized  that  she  was 
very  exact  to  her  word,  and  that  she  would  neither 
be  early  nor  late.  And  yet  in  the  illogical  fash¬ 
ion  of  a  lover,  he  soon  forgot  that  it  was  he  who 
was  too  soon,  and  he  chafed  and  chafed  as  the  min¬ 
utes  passed,  until  at  about  quarter  to  one  he  was 

striding  gloomily  about  with  despondent  features 

34 


THE  TWO  SOLOS. 


35 


and  melancholy  forebodings,  imagining  a  thou¬ 
sand  miserable  reasons  for  her  inexplicable  delay. 
A  good  many  people  stared  at  him  as  they  passed, 
and  we  may  as  well  do  so  among  the  number. 

In  person  Frank  Crosse  was  neither  tall  nor 
short — five  foot  eight  and  a  half  to  be  exact,  with 
the  well-knit  frame  and  springy  step  of  a  young 
man  who  had  been  an  athlete  from  his  boyhood. 
He  was  slim  but  wiry,  and  carried  his  head  with 
a  half-defiant  backward  slant  which  told  of  pluck 
and  breed.  Ills  face  was  tanned  brown,  in  spite 
of  his  city  hours,  but  his  hair  and  slight  mustache 
were  flaxen,  and  his  eyes,  which  were  his  best  fea¬ 
ture,  were  of  a  delicate  blue,  and  could  vary  in 
expression  from  something  very  tender  to  some¬ 
thing  particularly  hard.  He  was  an  orphan,  and 
had  inherited  nothing  from  his  parents  save  a  dash 
of  the  artist  from  his  mother.  It  was  not  enough 
to  help  him  to  earn  a  living,  but  it  transformed 
itself  into  a  keen  appreciation  and  some  ambitions 
in  literature,  and  it  gave  a  light  and  shade  to  his 
character  which  made  him  rather  complex,  and 
therefore  interesting.  His  best  friends  could  not 
deny  the  shade,  and  yet  it  was  but  the  shadow 
thrown  by  the  light.  Strength,  virility,  emotional 
force,  power  of  deep  feeling — these  are  traits  which 
have  to  be  paid  for.  There  was  sometimes  just  a 


36 


A  DUET. 


touch  of  the  savage — or  at  least  indications  of  the 
possibility  of  a  touch  of  the  savage — in  Frank 
Crosse.  His  intense  love  of  the  open  air  and  of 
physical  exercise  was  a  sign  of  it.  He  left  upon 
women  that  impression,  which  is  not  altogether  un¬ 
welcome,  that  there  were  unexplored  recesses  of 
his  nature  to  which  the  most  intimate  of  them  had 
never  penetrated.  In  those  dark  corners  either  a 
saint  or  a  sinner  might  be  lurking,  and  there  was 
a  pleasurable  excitement  in  peering  into  them  and 
wondering  which  it  was.  H o  woman  ever  found 
him  dull.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  for 
him  if  they  had,  for  his  impulsive  nature  had  never 
been  long  content  with  a  chilly  friendship.  lie 
was,  as  we  may  see,  a  man  with  a  past,  but  it  was 
a  past  now  that  Maude  Selby  had  come  like  an 
angel  of  light  across  the  shadowed  path  of  his  life. 
In  age  he  was  nearly  twenty-seven. 

There  are  one  or  two  things  which  might  be 
said  for  him  which  he  would  not  have  said  for 
himself.  He  was  an  only  child  and  an  orphan, 
but  he  had  adopted  his  grandparents,  who  had  been 
left  penniless  through  his  father^  death,  and 
through  all  his  struggles  he  had  managed  to  keep 
them  happy  and  comfortable' in  a  little  cottage  in 
Worcestershire.  Hor  did  he  ever  tell  them  that 
he  had  a  struggle,  fearing  lest  it  should  make  their 


THE  TWO  SOLOS. 


37 


position  painful;  and  so  when  their  quarterly 
cheque  arrived,  they  took  it  as  a  kindly  but  not 
remarkable  act  of  duty  upon  the  part  of  their 
wealthy  grandson  in  the  city,  with  no  suspicion  as 
to  the  difference  which  their  allowance  was  mak¬ 
ing  to  him.  Nor  did  he  himself  look  upon  his 
action  as  a  virtuous  one,  but  simply  as  a  thing 
which  must  obviously  be  done.  In  the  meantime 
he  had  stuck  closely  to  his  work,  had  won  rapid 
promotion  in  the  insurance  office  in  which  he  had 
started  as  junior  clerk,  had  gained  the  good  will 
of  his  superiors  through  his  frank,  unaffected  ways, 
and  had  been  asked  to  play  for  the  second  Surrey 
eleven  at  cricket.  So,  without  going  the  length  of 
saying  that  he  was  worthy  of  Maude  Selby,  one 
might  perhaps  claim — if  it  could  be  done  without 
endangering  that  natural  modesty  which  was  one 
of  his  charms — that  he  was  as  worthy  as  any  other 
young  man  who  was  available. 

That  unfortunate  artistic  soul  of  his,  which  had 
been  in  the  tropics  of  expectation,  and  was  now 
in  the  arctic  of  reaction,  had  just  finally  settled 
down  to  black  despair  with  a  grim  recognition  of 
the  fact  that  Maude  had  certainly  and  absolutely 
given  him  up  when  one  boomed  from  the  station 
clock,  and  on  the  very  stroke  she  hurried  on  to 
*  the  platform.  How  could  he  have  strained  his  eyes 


38 


A  DUET. 


after  other  women  as  if  a  second  glance  were  ever 
needed  when  it  was  really  she!  The  perfectly 
graceful  figure,  the  trimness  and  neatness  of  it, 
the  beautiful  womanly  poise  of  the  head,  the  quick, 
elastic  step,  he  could  have  sworn  to  her  among  ten 
thousand.  His  heart  gave  a  bound  at  the  sight 
of  her,  hut  he  had  the  English  aversion  to  giving 
himself  away,  and  so  he  walked  quickly  forward  to 
meet  her  with  an  impassive  face,  but  with  a  look 
in  his  eyes  which  was  all  that  she  wanted. 

“  How  are  you?  ” 

“  How  do  you  do?  ” 

He  stood  for  a  few  moments  looking  at  her  in 
silence.  She  had  on  the  dress  which  he  loved  so 
much — a  silver-gray  merino  skirt  and  jacket,  with 
a  blouse  of  white  pongee  silk  showing  in  front. 
Some  lighter-coloured  trimming  fringed  the  cloth. 
She  wore  a  gray  toque  with  a  dash  of  white  at 
the  side,  and  a  white  veil,  which  softened  without 
concealing  the  dark-brown  curls  and  fresh  girlish 
face  beneath  it.  Her  gloves  were  of  gray  suede , 
and  the  two  little  pointed  tan  shoes  peeping  from 
the  edge  of  her  skirt  were  the  only  touches  of  a 
darker  tint  in  her  attire.  Crosse  had  the  heredi¬ 
tary  artist’s  eye,  and  he  could  only  stand  and  stare 
and  enjoy  it.  He  was  filled  with  admiration,  with 
reverence,  and  with  wonder  that  this  perfect  thing  - 


THE  TWO  SOLOS. 


39 


should  really  proclaim  itself  to  be  all  his  own. 
What  had  he  done  or  could  he  do  to  deserve  it? 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  a  roguish  sidelong 
way,  with  the  bright,  mischievous  smile  which  was 
one  of  her  charms. 

“  Well,  sir,  do  you  approve?  ” 

“  By  Jove!  it  is  splendid— beautiful!  ” 

“  So  glad!  I  hoped  you  would,  since  you  are 
so  fond  of  grays.  Besides,  it  is  cooler  in  this 
weather.  I  hope  you  have  not  been  waiting.” 

“  Oh,  no,  that’s  all  right.” 

“  You  looked  so  solemn  when  first  I  saw  you!  ” 
“  Did  I?” 

“  And  then  you  just  jumped.” 

“  Did  I?  I’m  sorry.” 

“  Why?” 

“  I  don’t  know.  I  like  our  feelings  to  be  our 
very,  very  own,  and  never  to  show  them  to  any 
one  else  at  all.  It’s  too  sacred  to  be  public.  It 
profanes  it  and  makes  it  vulgar — if  anything  could 
make  such  a  thing  vulgar.  I  dare  say  it  is  ab¬ 
surd,  but  that  is  my  instinct.” 

“  Yever  mind,  dear,  it  wasn’t  such  a  big  jump 
as  all  that.  Where  are  we  going?  ” 

“  Come  here,  Maude,  into  the  waiting-room.” 

She  followed  him  into  the  gloomy,  smoky, 
dingy  room.  Bare  yellow  benches  ran  round  it  on 


40 


A  DUET. 


a  floor  of  brown  linoleum.  A  labouring  man  witli 
his  wife  and  a  child  sat  waiting  with  the  stolid 
patience  of  the  poor  in  one  corner.  They  were 
starting  on  some  Saturday  afternoon  excursion, 
and  had  mistimed  their  train.  Maude  and  Frank 
Crosse  took  the  other  corner.  He  took  a  jeweller’s 
box  from  his  pocket  and  removed  the  lid.  Some¬ 
thing  sparkled  among  the  wadding. 

“  O  Frank!  Is  that  really  it?” 

“  Do  you  like  it?  ” 

“  What  a  broad  one  it  is!  Mother’s  is  quite 
thin.” 

“  They  wear  thin  in  time.” 

“  It  is  beautiful.  Shall  I  try  it  on?  ” 

“  Ho,  don’t.  There  is  some  superstition  about 
it.” 

“  But  suppose  it  won’t  fit?  ” 

“  That  is  quite  safe.  I  measured  it  with  your 
sapphire  ring.” 

“  I  haven’t  half  scolded  you  enough  about  that 
sapphire  ring.  How  could  you  go  and  give  twenty- 
two  guineas  for  a  ring —  Oh,  yes,  sir,  that  was 
the  price,  for  I  saw  a  duplicate  yesterday  in  the 
Goldsmith’s  Company.  You  dear,  extravagant  old 
boy!  ” 

“  I  had  saved  the  money.” 

“  But  not  for  that !  ” 


THE  TWO  SOLOS. 


41 


“  For  nothing  half  or  quarter  as  important. 
But  I  had  the  other  to  the  same  size,  so  it  is  sure 
to  fit.” 

Maude  had  pushed  up  her  veil,  and  sat  with 
the  little  golden  circlet  in  her  hand  looking  down 
at  it,  while  the  dim,  watery  London  sunlight  poured 
through  the  window  and  tagged  all  her  wander¬ 
ing  curls  with  a  coppery  gleam.  It  was  a  face 
beautiful  in  itself,  but  more  beautiful  for  its  ex¬ 
pression,  sensitive,  refined,  womanly,  full  of  inno¬ 
cent  archness  and  girlish  mischief,  but  with  a  depth 
of  expression  in  the  eyes  and  a  tender  delicacy 
about  the  mouth  which  spoke  of  a  great  spirit,  with 
all  its  capacities  for  suffering  and  devotion  within. 
The  gross  admirer  of  merely  physical  charms  would 
have  passed  her  over  unnoticed.  So  would  the 
man  who  is  attracted  only  by  outward  and  obvi¬ 
ous  signs  of  character.  But  to  the  man  who  could 
see,  to  the  man  whose  own  soul  had  enough  of 
spirituality  to  respond  to  hers,  and  whose  eye  could 
appreciate  the  subtlety  of  a  beauty  which  is  of 
the  mind  as  well  as  of  the  body,  there  was  not 
in  all  wide  London  upon  that  midsummer  day 
a  sweeter  girl  than  Maude  Selby  as  she  sat  in 
her  gray  merino  dress  with  the  '  London  sun 
tagging  her  brown  curls  with  that  coppery  glim¬ 


mer. 


4 


42 


A  DUET. 


Slie  handed  back  the  ring,  and  a  graver  expres¬ 
sion  passed  over  her  mobile  face. 

“  I  feel  as  you  said  in  your  letter,  Frank. 
There  is  something  tragic  in  it.  It  will  be  with 
me  forever.  All  the  future  will  arrange  itself 
round  that  little  ring.” 

“  Are  you  afraid  of  it?  ” 

“  Afraid !  ”  Her  gray  glove  rested  for  an  in¬ 
stant  upon  the  back  of  his  hand.  “  I  couldn't  be 
afraid  of  anything  if  you  were  with  me.  It  is 
really  extraordinary,  for  by  nature  I  am  so  easily 
frightened.  But  if  I  were  with  you  in  a  railway 
accident  or  anywhere,  it  would  be  just  the  same. 
You  see,  I  become  for  the  time  part  of  you,  as  it 
were,  and  you  are  brave  enough  for  two.” 

“I  don’t  profess  to  be  so  brave  as  all  that,” 
said  Frank.  “  I  expect  I  have  as  many  nerves  as 
my  neighbours.” 

Maude’s  gray  toque  nodded  up  and  down.  “  I 
know  all  about  that,”  said  she. 

“  You  have  such  a  false  idea  of  me.  It  makes 
me  happy  at  the  time  and  miserable  afterward, 
for  I  feel  such  a  rank  impostor.  You  imagine  me 
to  be  a  hero  and  a  genius  and  all  sorts  of  things, 
while  I  know  that  I  am  about  as  ordinary  a  young 
fellow  as  walks  the  streets  of  London,  and  no  more 
worthy  of  you  than — well,  than  any  one  else  is.” 


THE  TWO  SOLOS. 


43 


She  laughed  with  shining  eyes. 

f 

“  I  like  to  hear  you  talk  like  that,”  said  she. 
“  That  is  just  what  is  so  beautiful  about  you.” 

It  is  hopeless  to  prove  that  you  are  not  a 
hero  when  your  disclaimers  are  themselves  taken 
as  a  proof  of  heroism.  Frank  shrugged  his  shoul¬ 
ders. 

“  I  only  hope  you’ll  find  me  out  gradually, 
and  not  suddenly,”  said  he.  “  How,  Maude,  we 
have  all  day  and  all  London  before  us.  What  shall 
we  do?  I  want  you  to  choose.” 

“  I  am  quite  happy  whatever  we  do.  I  am 
content  to  sit  here  with  you  until  evening.” 

Her  idea  of  a  happy  holiday  set  them  both 
laughing. 

“  Come  along,”  said  he.  “  We  shall  discuss  it 
as  we  go.” 

The  workman’s  family  was  still  waiting,  and 
Maude  handed  the  child  a  shilling  as  she  went  out. 
She  was  so  happy  herself  that  she  wanted  every 
one  else  to  be  happy  also.  The  people  turned  to 
look  at  her  as  she  passed.  With  the  slight  flush 
upop  her  cheeks  and  the  light  in  her  eyes,  she 
seemed  the  personification  of  youth  and  life  and 
love.  One  tall  old  gentleman  started  as  he  looked, 
and  watched  her  with  a  rapt  face  until  she  disap¬ 
peared.  Some  cheek  had  flushed  and  some  eye 


44 


A  DUET. 


brightened  at  his  words  once,  and  sweet  dead  days 
had  for  an  instant  lived  again. 

“  Shall  we  have  a  cab?  ” 

u  O  Frank!  we  must  learn  to  be  economical. 
Let  us  walk.” 

“  I  can’t  and  won’t  be  economical  to-day.” 

“  There,  now !  See  what  a  bad  influence  I 
have  over  you!  ” 

“  Most  demoralizing!  But  we  have  not  settled 
yet  where  we  are  to  go.” 

“  What  does  it  matter,  if  we  are  together?  ” 

“  There  is  a  good  match  at  the  Oval — the  Aus¬ 
tralians  against  Surrey.  Would  you  care  to  see 
that?” 

“  Yes,  dear,  if  you  would.” 

“  And  there  are  matinees  at  all  the  thea¬ 
tres.” 

“  You  would  rather  be  in  the  open  air.” 

“  All  I  want  is  that  you  should  enjoy  your¬ 
self.” 

"  Never  fear.  I  shall  do  that.” 

“  Well,  then,  first  of  all  I  vote  that  we  go  and 
have  some  lunch.” 

They  started  across  the  station  yard,  and  passed 
the  beautiful  old  stone  cross.  Among  the  hansoms 
and  the  four-wheelers,  the  hurrying  travellers  and 
the  lounging  cabmen,  there  rose  that  lovely  recon- 


THE  TWO  SOLOS. 


45 


struction  of  medievalism,  the  pious  memorial  of  a 
great  Plantagenet  king  to  his  beloved  wife. 

“  Six  hundred  years  ago,”  said  Frank,  “  that 
old  stone  cross  was  completed,  with  heralds  and 
armoured  knights  around  it  to  honour  her  whose 
memory  was  honoured  by  the  king.  Now  the  cor¬ 
duroyed  porters  stand  where  the  heralds  stood,  and 
the  engines  whistle  all  day,  but  the  old  cross  is  the 
same  as  ever  in  the  same  old  place.  It  is  a  little 
thing  of  that  sort  which  makes  one  realize  the  un¬ 
broken  history  of  our  country.” 

Maude  insisted  upon  hearing  all  about  Queen 
Eleanor,  and  Frank  imparted  the  little  that  he 
knew  as  they  walked  out  into  the  crowded  Strand. 

“  She  was  Edward  Fs  wife,  and  a  splendid 
woman.  It  was  she,  you  remember,  who  sucked 
the  wound  when  he  was  stabbed  with  a  poisoned 
dagger.  She  died  somewhere  in  the  north,  and  he 
had  the  body  carried  south  to  bury  it  in  Westmin¬ 
ster  Abbey.  Wherever  it  rested  for  a  night  he 
built  a  cross,  and  so  you  have  a  line  of  crosses  to 
show  where  that  sad  journey  was  broken.” 

They  had  turned  down  Whitehall  and  passed 
the  big  cuirassiers  upon  their  black  chargers  at  the 
door  of  the  Horse  Guards.  Frank  pointed  to  one 
of  the  windows  of  the  old  banqueting  hall. 

“  YouVe  seen  a  memorial  of  a  queen  of  Eng- 


\ 


46  A  DUET. 

land/’  said  lie.  “  That  window  is  the  memorial 
of  a  king.” 

“  Why  so,  Frank?  ” 

“  I  believe  that  it  was  through  that  window 
that  Charles  I  passed  out  to  the  scaffold  when  his 
head  was  cut  off.  It  was  the  first  time  that  the 
people  had  ever  shown  that  they  claimed  authority 
over  their  king.” 

“Poor  fellow!”  said  Maude.  “He  was  so 
handsome  and  such  a  good  husband  and  father!  ” 

“It  is  the  good  kings  who  are  the  dangerous 
ones.”  . 

“  O  Frank!  ” 

“If  a  king  goes  in  for  pleasure,  then  he  does 
not  interfere  with  matters  of  state.  But  if  he  is 
conscientious,  then  he  tries  to  do  what  he  imagines 
to  be  his  duty,  and  so  he  causes  trouble.  Look 
at  Charles,  for  example.  He  was  a  very  good  man, 
and  yet  he  caused  a  civil  war.  George  III  was  a 
most  exemplary  character,  but  his  stupidity  lost 
us  America,  and  nearly  lost  us  Ireland.  They  were 
each  succeeded  by  thoroughly  bad  men,  who  did 
far  less  harm.” 

They  had  reached  the  end  of  Whitehall,  and 
the  splendid  panorama  of  Westminster  Abbey  and 
the  Houses  of  Parliament  lay  before  them.  The 
most  stately  of  ancient  English  buildings  was  con- 


THE  TWO  SOLOS. 


47 


trasted  with  the  most  beautiful  of  modern  ones. 
How  anything  60  graceful  came  to  be  built  by  this 
tasteless  and  utilitarian  nation  must  remain  a  mar¬ 
vel  to  the  traveller.  The  sun  was  shining  upon 
the  gold  work  of  the  roof,  and  the  grand  towers 
sprang  up  amid  the  light  London  haze,  like  some 
gorgeous  palace  in  a  dream.  It  was  a  fit  centre  for 
the  rule  to  whose  mild  sway  one  fifth  of  the  human 
race  acquiesces — a  rule  upheld  by  so  small  a  force 
that  only  the  consent  of  the  governed  can  sus¬ 
tain  it. 

Frank  and  Maude  stood  together  looking  up 
at  it. 

“  How  beautiful  it  is!  ”  she  cried.  “  How  the 
gilding  lightens  up  the  whole  building!  " 

“  And  how  absurd  it  is  not  to  employ  it  more 
in  our  gloomy  London  architecture!  ”  said  Frank. 
“  Imagine  how  grand  a  gilded  dome  of  St.  Paul's 
would  look  hanging  like  a  rising  sun  over  the  city! 
And  here  is  our  restaurant,  Maude,  and  Big  Ben 
says  that  it  is  a  quarter  to  two." 


V. 


BRITAIN’S  VALHALLA. 

They  had  discussed  the  rooms  in  their  new 
house,  and  the  bridesmaid’s  dresses,  and  Maude’s 
cooking,  and  marriage  presents,  and  the  merits  of 
Brighton,  and  the  nature  of  love,  and  volleying  at 
tennis  (Maude  was  the  lady  champion  of  a  tennis 
club),  and  season  tickets,  and  the  destiny  of  the 
universe — to  say  nothing  of  a  small  bottle  of  Per¬ 
rier  Jouet.  It  was  repreliensibly  extravagant,  but 
this  would  be  their  last  unmarried  excursion,  and 
so  they  drank  to  the  dear  days  of  the  past  and  the 
dearer  ones  of  the  future.  Good  comrades  as  well 
as  lovers,  they  talked  freely  and  with  pleasure. 
Frank  never  made  the  common  mistake  of  talking 
down,  and  Maude  justified  his  confidence  by  eager¬ 
ly  keeping  up.  To  both  of  them  silence  was  prefer¬ 
able  to  small  talk. 

“  We’ll  just  get  down  there  after  lunch,”  said 

Frank,  as  he  paid  his  bill.  “  You  have  not  seen 

the  Australians,  have  you?  ” 

48 


BRITAIN’S  VALHALLA.  49 

“  Yes,  dear,  I  saw  them  at  Clifton  four  years 
ago.” 

“  But  this  is  a  new  lot.  There  are  nine  of  the 
present  team  who  have  never  played  in  England 
before.” 

“  They  are  very  good,  are  they  not?  ” 

“  Very  good,  indeed.  And  the  dry  summer 
has  helped  them.  It  is  the  sticky  English  wickets 
which  put  them  off.  The  wickets  are  very  fast 
over  there.  Giffen  is  their  best  all-round  man,  but 
Darling  and  Indale  and  young  Hill  are  good 
enough  for  anything.  Well,  then —  O  Lord! 
what  a  pity!  ” 

He  had  turned  toward  the  window  as  he 
rose,  and  saw  one  of  those  little  surprises  by 
which  Nature  relieves  the  monotony  of  life  in 
these  islands.  The  sun  had  gone,  a  ragged,  slate- 
coloured  cloud  was  drifting  up  from  over  the 
river,  and  the  rain  was  falling  with  a  soft  per¬ 
sistency  which  is  more  fatal  than  the  most  bois¬ 
terous  shower.  There  would  be  no  more  cricket 
that  day. 

“  Two  coffees  and  two  benedictines !  ”  cried 
Frank,  and  they  relapsed  into  their  chairs.  But 
a  half  hour  passed,  and  the  gray  cloud  was  thicker 
and  the  rain  more  heavy.  The  cheerless  leaden 
river  flowed  slowly  under  drifting  skies.  Behind 


THE  DUET. 


50 

\ 

an  expanse  of  shining  pavement  the  great  black 
abbev  towered  amid  the  storm. 

u  Have  you  ever  done  the  abbey,  Maude?  ” 

“  Ho,  Frank;  I  should  love  to.” 

“  I  have  only  been  once — more  shame  to  me 
to  say  so!  Is  it  not  a  sin  that  we  young  English¬ 
men  should  be  familiar  with  every  music  hall  in 
London,  and  should  know  so  little  of  this,  which 
is  the  centre  of  the  British  race,  the  most  august 
and  tremendous  monument  that  ever  a  nation 
owned  ?  Six  hundred  years  ago  the  English  looked 
upon  it  as  their  holiest  and  most  national  shrine, 
and  since  then  our  kings  and  our  warriors  and  our 
thinkers  and  our  poets  have  all  been  laid  there, 
until  there  is  such  an  accumulation  that  the  huge 
abbey  has  hardly  space  for  another  monument. 
Let  us  spend  an  hour  inside  it.” 

They  made  for  Solomon’s  Porch,  since  it  was 
the  nearest  and  they  had  but  the  one  umbrella. 
Under  its  shelter  they  brushed  themselves  dry  be¬ 
fore  they  entered. 

“  Who  does  the  abbey  belong  to,  Frank?  ” 

“  To  you  and  me!  ” 

“  How  you  are  joking.” 

“  Hot  at  all.  It  belongs  in  the  long  run  to  the 
British  taxpayer.  A  Scotch  visitor  came  on  board 
one  of  our  battle  ships  and  asked  to  see  the  cap- 


BRITAIN’S  VALHALLA. 


51 


tain.  ‘  Who  shall  I  say  ?  ’  said  the  sentry.  c  One 
of  the  proprietors,’  said  the  Scotchman.  That’s* 
our  position  toward  the  abbey.  Let  us  inspect  our 
property.” 

They  were  smiling  as  they  entered,  but  the 
smile  faded  from  their  lips  as  the  door  closed  be¬ 
hind  them.  In  this  holy  of  holies,  this  inner  sanc¬ 
tuary  of  the  race,  there  was  a  sense  of  serene  and 
dignified  solemnity  which  would  have  imposed 
itself  upon  the  most  thoughtless.  Trank  and 
Maude  stood  in  mute  reverence.  The  high  arches 
shot  up  in  long  rows  upon  either  side  of  them, 
straight  and  slim  as  beautiful  trees,  until  they 
curved  off  far  up  near  the  clerestory  and  joined 
the  sister  curve  to  form  the  lightest,  most  delicate 
tracery  of  stone.  In  front  of  them  a  great  rose 
window  of  stained  glass,  splendid  with  rich  purples 
and  crimsons,  shone  through  a  subdued  and  rev¬ 
erent  gloom.  Here  and  there  along  the  aisles  a 
few  spectators  moved  among  the  shadows,  but  all 
round  along  the  walls  two  and  three  deep  were 
ranged  the  illustrious  dead,  the  perishable  body 
within,  the  lasting  marble  without,  and  the  more 
lasting  name  beneath.  It  was  very  silent  in  the 
home  of  the  great  dead — only  a  distant  footfall  or 
a  subdued  murmur  here  and  there.  Maude  knelt 
down  and  sank  her  face  in  her  hands.  Frank 


il  OF  ILL  li& 


52 


A  DUET. 


prayed  also  with  that  prayer  which  is  a  feeling 
rather  than  an  utterance. 

Then  they  began  to  move  round  the  short 
transept  in  which  they  found  themselves — a  part 
of  the  abbey  reserved  for  the  great  statesmen. 
Frank  tried  to  quote  the  passage  in  which  Macau¬ 
lay  talks  about  the  men  worn  out  by  the  stress 
and  struggle  of  the  neighbouring  Parliament  Hall, 
and  coming  hither  for  peace  and  rest.  Here  were 
the  men  who  had  been  strong  enough  to  grasp  the 
helm,  and  who,  sometimes  wisely,  sometimes  fool¬ 
ishly,  but  always  honestly,  had  tried  to  keep  the 
old  ship  before  the  wind — Canning  and  Peel,  Pitt, 
Fox,  Grattan,  and  Beaconsfield.  Governments 
and  oppositions  moulder  behind  the  walls.  Bea¬ 
consfield  alone  among  them  all  showed  the  hard- 
lined  face  of  the  self-made  man.  These  others  look 
so  plump  and  smooth  one  can  hardly  realize  how 
strong  they  were,  but  they  sprang  from  those  rul¬ 
ing  castes  to  whom  strength  came  by  easy  inherit¬ 
ance.  Frank  told  Maude  the  little  which  he  knew 
about  each  of  them — of  Grattan,  the  noblest  Irish¬ 
man  of  them  all;  of  Castlereagh,  whose  coffin  was 
pursued  to  the  gates  of  the  abbey  by  a  raging  mob, 
who  wished  to  tear  out  his  corpse;  of  Fox,  the  lib¬ 
ertine  philosopher  ;  of  Palmerston,  the  gallant 
sportsman  who  rode  long  after  he  could  walk. 


BRITAIN’S  VALHALLA. 


53 


They  marvelled  at  the  realism  of  the  sculptor  who 
had  pitted  Admiral  Warren  with  the  small-pox, 
and  at  the  absurdity  of  that  other  one  who  had 
clad  Robert  Peel  in  a  Roman  toga. 

Then  turning  to  the  right  at  the  end  of  the 
statesmen’s  transept,  they  wandered  aimlessly  down 
the  huge  nave.  It  was  overwhelming,  the  grand¬ 
eur  of  the  roof  above  and  of  the  contents  below. 
Any  one  of  hundreds  of  these  tombs  was  worth  a 
devout  pilgrimage,  but  how  could  one  raise  his 
soul  to  the  appreciation  of  them  all?  Here  was 
Darwin,  who  revolutionized  zoology;  and  here  was 
Isaac  Hewton,  who  gave  a  new  direction  to  astrom 
omy.  Here  were  old  Ben  Jonson;  and  Stephenson, 
the  father  of  railways;  and  Livingstone,  of  Africa; 
and  Wordsworth,  and  Kingsley,  and  Arnold.  Here 
were  the  good  Shaftesbury  and  soldiers  of  the 
mutiny,  Clyde  and  Outram  and  Lawrence,  and 
painters  and  authors  and  surgeons,  and  all  the 
good  sons  who  in  their  several  degree  had  done 
loyal  service  to  the  old  mother.  And  when  their 
service  was  done,  the  old  mother  had  stretched  out 
that  long  arm  of  Lers  and  had  brought  them  home, 
and  always  for  every  good  son  brought  home  she 
had  sent  another  forth,  and  her  loins  were  ever 
fruitful,  and  her  children  loving  and  true.  Go 
into  the  abbey  and  think,  and  as  the  nation’s  past 


64 


A  DUET. 


is  borne  in  upon  you,  you  will  have  no  fear  for  its 
future. 

Frank  was  delighted  with  some  of  the  monu¬ 
ments  and  horrified  by  others,  and  he  communi¬ 
cated  both  his  joy  and  his  anger  to  Maude.  They 
noticed  together  how  the  moderns  and  the  Eliza¬ 
bethans  had  much  in  common  in  their  types  of  face, 
their  way  of  wearing  the  hair,  and  their  taste  in 
monuments,  while  between  them  lie  the  intolerable 
affectations  which  culminated  toward  the  end  of 
last  century. 

“  It  all  rings  false — statue,  inscription,  every¬ 
thing,”  said  Frank.  “  These  insufferable  allegori¬ 
cal  groups  sprawling  all  round  a  dead  hero  are 
of  the  same  class  as  the  pompous  and  turgid  prose 
of  Dr.  Johnson.  The  greatest  effects  are  the  sim¬ 
plest  effects,  and  so  it  always  wras  and  always  will 
be.  But  that  little  bit  of  Latin  is  effective,  I  con¬ 
fess.”  Ak 

It  was  a  very  much  defaced  inscription  under¬ 
neath  a  battered  Elizabethan  effigy,  whose  feet  had 
been  knocked  off,  and  whose  features  were  blurred 
into  nothing.  Two  words  of  the  inscription  had 
caught  Frank’s  eye. 

“  ‘  Moestissima  uxor  7 !  It  was  his  1  most  pad 
wife  9  who  erected  it.  Look  at  it  now!  The  poor 
battered  monument  of  a  woman’s  love.  That 


BRITAIN’S  VALHALLA. 


55 


broken  figure  meant  everything  to  her.  Now, 
Maude,  come  with  me,  and  we  shall  visit  the 
famous  Poets’  Corner.” 

What  an  assembly  it  would  be  if  at  some  su¬ 
preme  day  each  man  might  stand  forth  from  the 
portals  of  his  tomb!  Tennyson,  the  last  and  almost 
the  greatest  of  that  illustrious  line,  lay  under  the 
white  slab  upon  the  floor.  Maude  and  Frank  stood 
reverently  beside  it. 

*  *  Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me,’  ” 

Frank  quoted.  “  What  lines  for  a  very  old  man 
to  write!  I  would  put  him  second  only  to  Shakes¬ 
peare  had  I  the  marshalling  of  them.” 

“  I  have  read  so  little !  ”  said  Maude. 

“  We  will  read  it  all  together  after  next  week. 
But  it  makes  your  reading  so  much  more  real  and 
intimate  when  you  have  stood  at  the  grave  of  the 
man  who  wrote!  That’s  Chaucer,  the  big  tomb 
there.  ITe  is  the  father  of  British  poetry.  Here  is 
Browning  beside  Tennyson — united  in  life  and  in 
death.  He  was  the  more  profound  thinker,  but 
music  and  form  are  essential  also.” 

“  What  a  splendid  face!  ”  cried  Maude. 

“  It  is  a  bust  to  Longfellow,  the  American.” 
They  read  the  inscription:  “  This  bust  was  placed 


56 


A  DUET. 


among  the  memorials  of  the  poets  of  England  by 
English  admirers  of  an  American  poet.” 

“  I  am  so  glad  to  have  seen  that!  I  know  his 
poems  so  well,”  said  Maude. 

“  I  believe  he  is  more  read  than  any  poet  in 


England.”. 

“  Who  is  that  standing  figure?  ” 

“  It  is  Dry  den.  What  a  clever  face,  and  what 
a  modern  type!  Here  is  Walter  Scott  beside  the 
door.  How  kindly  and  humorous  his  expression 
was!  And  see  how  high  his  head  was  from  the 


ear  to  the  crown!  It  was  a  great  brain.  There 
is  Burns,  the  other  famous  Scot,  Don’t  you  think 
there  is  a  resemblance  between  the  faces?  And 
here  are  Dickens  and  Thackeray  and  Macaulay.  I 
wonder  whether  when  Macaulay  was  writing  his 
essays  he  had  a  premonition  that  he  would  be 
buried  in  Westminster  Abbey?  He  is  continually 
alluding  to  the  abbey  and  its  graves.  I  always 
think  that  we  have  a  vague  intuition  as  to  what 
will  occur  to  us  in  life.” 

“  We  can  guess  what  is  probable.” 

“  It  amounts  to  more  than  that.  I  had  an  in¬ 
tuition  that  I  should  marry  you  from  the  first  day 
that  I  saw  you,  and  yet  it  did  not  seem  probable. 
But  deep  down  in  my  soul  I  knew  that  I  should 


marry  you.” 


BRITAIN’S  VALHALLA. 


57 


“  I  knew  tliat  I  should  marry  you,  Frank,  or 
else  that  I  should  never  marry  at  all.” 

“  There,  now!  We  both  had  it.  Well,  that 
is  really  wonderful!  ” 

They  stood  among  the  memorials  of  all  those 
great  people,  marvelling  at  the  mysteries  of  their 
own  small  lives.  A  voice  at  their  elbows  brought 
them  back  to  the  present. 

“  This  way,  if  you  please,  for  the  kings,”  said 
the  voice.  “  They  are  now  starting  for  the  kings.” 

“  They  ”  proved  to  be  a  curiously  mixed  little 
group  of  people,  who  were  waiting  at  the  entrance 
through  the  inclosure  for  the  arrival  of  the  official 
guide.  There  was  a  tall,  red-bearded  man  with  a 
very  Scotch  accent  and  a  small,  gentle  wife;  also  an 

American  father  with  his  two  bright  and  enthusi- 

\ 

astic  daughters;  a  petty  officer  of  the  navy  in  his 
uniform  ;  two  young  men,  whose  attention  was 
cruelly  distracted  from  the  monuments  by  the 
American  girls;  and  a  dozen  other  travellers  of 
various  sexes  and  ages.  Just  as  Maude  and  Frank 
joined  them  the  guide,  a  young,  fresh-faced  fellow, 
came  striding  up,  and  they  all  passed  through  the 
opening  into  the  royal  burying  ground. 

“  This  way,  ladies  and  gentlemen!”  cried  the 

hurrying  guide,  and  they  all  clattered  over  the 

stone  pavement.  He  stopped  beside  a  tomb  upon 
5 


58 


A  DUET. 


which  a  lady  with  a  Bad,  worn  face  was  lying. 
“  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,”  said  he,  “  the  greatest 
beauty  of  her  day.  This  monument  was  erected 
by  her  son,  James  I.” 

“  Isn’t  she  just  perfectly  sweet!  ”  said  one  of 
the  American  girls. 

“  Well,  I  don’t  know.  I  expected  more  of  her 
than  that,”  the  other  answered. 

“  I  reckon,”  remarked  the  father,  “  that  if  any 
one  went  through  as  much  as  that  lady  did  it  would 
not  tend  to  improve  her  beauty. — Now,  what  age 
might  the  lady  be,  sir?” 

“  Forty-four  years  of  age  at  the  time  of  her 
execution,”  said  the  guide. 

“  Ah,  weel,  she’s  young  for  her  years,”  mut¬ 
tered  the  Scotchman,  and  the  party  moved  on. 
Frank  and  Maude  lingered  to  have  a  further  look 
at  the  unfortunate  princess,  the  bright  French  but¬ 
terfly,  who  wandered  from  the  light  and  warmth 
into  that  grim  country,  a  land  of  blood  and  of 
psalms. 

“  She  was  as  hard  as  nails  under  all  her  gentle 
grace,”  said  Frank.  “  She  rode  eighty  miles,  and 
hardly  drew  rein  after  the  battle  of  Langside.” 

“She  looks  as  if  she  was  tired,  poor  dear!” 
said  Maude.  “  I  don’t  think  that  she  was  sorry 
to  be  at  rest.” 


BRITAIN’S  VALHALLA. 


59 


Tlie  guide  was  narrating  the  owners  of  the 
tombs  at  the  farther  end  of  the  chapel.  “  Queen 
Anne  is  here,  and  Mary,  the  wife  of  William  III, 
is  beside  her.  And  here  is  William  himself.  The 
king  was  very  short  and  the  queen  very  tall,  so  in 
the  sculptures  the  king  is  depicted  standing  upon 
a  stool,  so  as  to  bring  their  heads  level.  In  the 
vaults  beyond  there  are  thirty-eight  Stuarts.” 

Thirty-eight  Stuarts !  Princes,  bishops,  gen¬ 
erals,  once  the  salt  of  the  earth,  the  mightiest  of 
men,  and  now  lumped  carelessly  together  as  thirty- 
eight  Stuarts.  So  Death  the  Republican  and  Time 
the  Radical  can  drag  down  the  highest  from  his 
throne. 

They  had  followed  the  guide  into  another 
small  chapel,  which  bore  the  name  of  Henry  YII 
upon  the  door.  Surely  they  were  great  builders 
and  great  designers  in  those  days !  Had  stone  been 
as  pliable  as  wax,  it  could  not  have  been  twisted 
and  curved  into  more  exquisite  spirals  and  curls, 
so  light,  so  delicate,  so  beautiful,  twining  and  turn¬ 
ing  along  the  walls,  and  drooping  from  the  ceiling. 
Hever  did  the  hand  of  man  construct  anything 
more  elaborately  ornate,  nor  the  brain  of  man 
think  out  a  design  more  absolutely  harmonious 
and  lovely.  In  the  centre,  with  all  the  pomp  of 
medieeval  heraldry,  starred  and  spangled  with  the 


60 


A  DUET. 


Tudor  badges,  the  two  bronze  figures  of  Henry  and 
his  wife  lay  side  by  side  upon  their  tomb.  The 
guide  read  out  the  quaint  directions  in  the  king’s 
will,  by  which  they  were  to  be  buried  “  with  some 
respect  to  their  royal  dignity,  but  avoiding  damn¬ 
able  pomp  and  outrageous  superfluities!  ”  There 
was,  as  Frank  remarked,  a  fine  touch  of  the  hot 
Tudor  blood  in  the  adjectives.  One  could  guess 
where  Henry  VIII  got  his  masterful  temper.  Yet 
it  was  an  ascetic  and  priestlike  face  which  looked 
upward  from  the  tomb. 

They  passed  the  rifled  tombs  of  Cromwell, 
Blake,  and  Ireton — the  despicable  revenge  of  the 
men  who  did  not  dare  to  face  them  in  the  field;  and 
they  marked  the  grave  of  James  I,  who  erected  no 
monument  to  himself,  and  so  justified  in  death  the 
reputation  for  philosophy  which  he  had  aimed  at 
in  his  life.  Then  they  inspected  the  great  tomb 
of  Villiers,  Duke  of  Buckingham,  as  surprising 
and  as  magnificent  as  his  history,  casting  a  glance 
at  the  covering  of  plucky  little  George  II,  the  last 
English  king  to  lead  his  own  army  into  battle,  and 
so  onward  to  see  the  corner  of  the  Innocents,  where 
rest  the  slender  bones  of  the  poor  children  mur¬ 
dered  in  the  Tower. 

But  now  the,  guide  had  collected  his  little  flock 
around  him  again,  with  the  air  of  one  who  has 


BRITAIN’S  VALHALLA. 


61 


something  which  is  not  to  be  missed.  “  You  will 
stand  upon  the  step  to  see  the  profile,”  said  he,  as 
he  indicated  a  female  figure  upon  a  tomb.  “  It 
is  the  great  Queen  Elizabeth.’’ 

It  was  a  profile  and  a  face  worth  seeing — the 
face  of  a  queen  who  was  worthy  of  her  Shakes- 
peares  upon  the  land  and  her  Drakes  upon  the  sea. 
Had  the  Spanish  king  seen  her,  he  would  have 
understood  that  she  was  not  safe  to  attack — this 
grim  old  lady,  with  the  eagle  nose  and  the  iron 
lips.  You  could  understand  her  grip  upon  her 
cash-box,  you  could  explain  her  harshness  to  her 
lovers,  you  could  realize  the  confidence  of  her  peo¬ 
ple,  you  could  read  it  all  in  that  wonderful  face. 

“  She’s  splendid!  ”  said  Frank. 

“  She’s  terrible!  ”  said  Maude. 

“  Did  I  understand  you  to  say,  sir,”  asked  the 
American,  “  that  it  was  this  lady  who  beheaded 
the  other  lady,  Queen  of  Scotland,  whom  we  saw 
’way  back  in  the  other  compartment?” 

“  Yes,  sir,  she  did.” 

“  Well,  I  guess  if  there  was  any  beheading  to 
be  done,  this  was  the  lady  to  see  that  it  was  put 
through  with  promptness  and  despatch.  Hot  a 
married  lady,  I  gather?  ” 

“  Ho,  sir.” 

“  And  a  fortunate  thing  for  somebody.  That 


62 


A  DUET. 


woman’s  husband  would  have  a  mean  time  of  it, 
sir,  in  my  opinion.” 

u  Hush,  poppa !  ”  said  the  two  daughters,  and 
the  procession  moved  on.  They  were  entering  the 
inner  chapel  of  all,  the  oldest  and  the  holiest,  in 
wThich,  amid  the  ancient  Plantagenet  kings,  there 
lies  that  one  old  Saxon  monarch,  confessor  and 
saint,  the  holy  Edward,  round  whose  honoured 
body  the  whole  of  this  great  shrine  has  gradually 
risen.  A  singular  ereetion,  once  covered  with  mo¬ 
saic  work,  but  now  bare  and  gaunt,  stood  in  the 
centre. 

“  The  body  of  Edward  the  Confessor  is  in  a 
case  up  at  the  top,”  said  the  guide.  “  This  hollow 
place  below  was  filled  with  precious  relics,  and  the 
pilgrims  used  to  kneel  in  these  niches,  which  are 
just  large  enough  to  hold  a  man  upon  his  knees. 
The  mosaic  work  has  been  picked  out  by  the  pil¬ 
grims.” 

“  What  is  the  date  of  the  shrine?  ”  asked 
Frank. 

“  About  1250,  sir.  The  early  king's  were  all 
buried  as  near  to  it  as  they  could  get,  for  it  was 
their  belief  in  those  days  that  the  devil  might 
carry  off  the  body,  and  so  the  nearer  they  got  to 
the  shrine  the  safer  they  felt.  Henry  V,  who  won 
the  battle  of  Agincourt,  is  there.  Those  are  the 


BRITAIN’S  VALHALLA. 


63 


actual  helmet,  shield,  and  saddle  which  he  used  in 
the  battle  upon  the  crossbeam  yonder.  That  king 
with  the  grave  face  and  the  beard  is  Edward  III, 
the  father  of  the  Black  Prince.  The  Black  Prince 
never  lived  to  ascend  the  throne,  but  he  was  the 
father  of  the  unfortunate  Bichard  II,  who  lies  here 
— this  clean-shaven  king  with  the  sharp  features. 
Bow,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  if  you  will  turn  this 
way,  I  will  show  you  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
objects  in  the  abbey.” 

The  object  in  question  proved  to  be  nothing 
more  singular  than  a  square  block  of  stone  placed 
under  an  old  chair.  And  yet,  as  the  guide  con¬ 
tinued  to  speak,  they  felt  that  he  had  justified  his 
words. 

“  This  is  the  sacred  stone  of  Scone  upon  which 
the  kings  of  Scotland  have  been  crowned  from 
time  immemorial.  When  Edward  I  overran  Scot¬ 
land  six  hundred  years  ago  he  had  it  brought  here, 
and  since  then  every  monarch  of  England  has  also 
sat  upon  it  when  crowned.” 

“  The  present  Queen?  ”  asked  some  one. 

“  Yes,  she  also.  The  legend  was  that  it  was 
the  stone  upon  which  Jacob  rested  his  head  when 
he  dreamed,  but  the  geologists  have  proved  that  it 
is  red  sandstone  of  Scotland.” 

“  Then  I  understand,  sir,  that  this  other  throne 


64 


A  DUET. 


is  the  Scottish  throne/’  said  the  American  gentle¬ 
man. 

“  Ho,  sir,  the  Scottish  throne  and  the  English 
throne  are  the  same  throne.  But  at  the  time  of 
William  and  Mary  it  was  necessary  to  crown  her 
as  well  as  him,  and  so  a  second  throne  was  needed. 
But  that,  of  course,  was  modern.” 

“  Only  a  couple  of  hundred  years  ago.  I  won- 

\ 

der  they  let  it  in.  But  I  guess  they  might  have 
taken  better  care  of  it.  Some  one  has  carved  his 
name  upon  it.” 

“  A  Westminster  boy  bet  his  schoolfellows  that 
he  would  sleep  among  the  tombs,  and  to  prove  that 
he  had  done  it  he  carved  his  name  upon  the 
throne.” 

“  You  don’t  say!  ”  cried  the  American.  “  Well, 
I  guess  that  boy  ended  pretty  high  up.” 

“  As  high  as  the  gallows,”  said  Frank,  and 
every  one  tittered;  but  the  guide  hurried  on  with 
a  grave  face,  for  the  dignity  of  the  abbey  was  in 
his  keeping.  { 

“  This  tomb  is  that  of  Queen  Eleanor,”  said  he. 

Frank  twitched  Maude  by  the  sleeve.  “  Elea¬ 
nor  of  Charing  Cross,”  said  he.  “  See  how  one  little 
bit  of  knowledge  links  on  with  another.” 

“  And  here  is  the  tomb  of  her  husband,  Ed¬ 
ward  I.  It  was  he  who  brought  the  stone  from 


BRITAIN’S  VALHALLA. 


65 


Scone.  At  the  time  of  his  death  the  conquest  of 
Scotland  was  nearly  done,  and  he  gave  orders  that 
his  burial  should  be  merely  temporary  until  Scot¬ 
land  was  thoroughly  subdued.  He  is  still,  as  you 
perceive,  in  his  temporary  tomb.” 

The  big  Scotchman  laughed  loudly  and  de¬ 
risively.  All  the  others  looked  sadly  at  him  with 
the  pitying  gaze  which  the  English  use  toward  the 
more  excitable  races  when  their  emotion  gets  the 
better  of  them.  A  stream  from  a  garden  hose 

i  ...  t. 

could  not  have  damped  him  more. 

“  They  opened  the  grave  last  century,”  said  the 
guide.  “  Inside  was  an  inscription  which  said, 
1  Here  lies  the  hammer  of  the  Scots.’  He  was  a 
fine  man,  six  foot  two  inches  from  crown  to  sole.” 

They  wandered  out  of  the  old  shrine  where 
the  great  Plantagenet  kings  lie  like  a  body-guard 
round  the  Saxon  saint.  Abbots  lay  on  one  side  of 
them  as  they  passed,  and  dead  crusaders  with  their 
legs  crossed  upon  the  other.  And  then  in  an  in¬ 
stant  they  were  back  in  comparatively  modern 
times  again. 

“  This  is  the  tomb  of  Wolfe,  who  died  upon 
the  heights  of  Abraham,”  said  the  guide.  “  It 
was  due  to  him  that  all  America  belongs  to  the. 
English-speaking  races.  There’s  a  picture  of  his 
Highlanders  going  up  to  the  battle  along  the  wind- 


66 


A  DUET. 


ing  path  which  leads  from  Wolfe’s  Cove.  He  died 
in  the  moment  of  victory.” 

It  was  bewildering  the  way  in  which  they 
skipped  from  age  to  age.  This  history  of  England 
appeared  to  be  not  merely  continuous,  but  simul¬ 
taneous,  as  they  turned  in  an  instant  from  the 
Georgian  to  the  Elizabethan,  the  one  monument 
as  well  preserved  as  the  other.  They  passed  the 
stately  De  Yere,  his  armour  all  laid  out  in  frag¬ 
ments  upon  a  marble  slab,  as  a  proof  that  he  died 
at  peace  with  all  men;  and  they  saw  the  terrible 
statue  of  the  onslaught  of  Death,  which,  viewed 
in  the  moonlight,  made  a  midnight  robber  drop 
his  booty  and  fly  panic-stricken  out  of  the  abbey. 
So  awful  and  yet  so  fascinating  is  it  that  the  shuf¬ 
fling  feet  of  the  party  of  sight-seers  had  passed 
out  of  hearing  before  Maude  and  Frank  could  force 
themselves  away  from  it. 

In  the  base  of  the  statue  is  an  iron  door,  which 
has  been  thrown  open,  and  the  sculptor’s  art  has 
succeeded  wonderfully  in  convincing  you  that  it 
has  been  thrown  open  violently.  The  two  leaves 
of  it  seem  still  to  quiver  with  the  shock,  and  one 
could  imagine  that  one  heard  the  harsh  clang  of 
the  metal.  Out  of  the  black  opening  had  sprung 
a  dreadful  thing,  something  muffled  in  a  winding 
sheet,  one  bony  hand  clutching  the  edge  of  the 


BRITAIN’S  VALHALLA. 


67 


pedestal,  the  other  upraised  to  hurl  a  dart  at  the 
woman  above  him.  She,  a  young  bride  of  twenty- 
seven,  had  fallen  fainting,  while  her  husband,  with 
horror  in  his  face,  is  springing  forward,  his  hand 
outstretched,  to  get  between  his  wife  and  her  loath¬ 
some  assailant. 

“  I  shall  dream  of  this,”  said  Maude.  She  had 
turned  quite  pale,  as  many  a  woman  has  before 
this  monument. 

“  It  is  awful!  ”  Frank  walked  backward,  un¬ 
able  to  take  his  eyes  from  it.  “  What  pluck  that 
sculptor  had!  It  is  an  effect  which  must  be  either 
ludicrous  or  great,  and  he  has  made  it  great.” 

“  Koubillac  is  his  name,”  said  Maude,  reading 
it  from  the  pedestal. 

“  A  Frenchman  or  a  man  of  French  descent. 
Isn’t  that  characteristic?  In  the  whole  great  abbey 
the  one  monument  which  has  impressed  us  with  its 
genius  and  imagination  is  by  a  foreigner.  We 
haven’t  got  it  in  us.  We  are  too  much  afraid  of 
letting  ourselves  go  and  of  giving  ourselves  away. 
We  are  heavy-handed  and  heavy-minded.” 

“  If  we  can’t  produce  the  monuments,  we  can 
produce  the  men  who  deserve  them,”  said  Maude, 
and  Frank  wrote  the  aphorism  down  upon  his  shirt 
cutf. 

“  We  are  too  severe  both  in  sculpture  and 


68 


A  DUET. 


architecture,”  said  he.  “  More  fancy  and  vigour 
in  our  sculptors,  more  use  of  gold  and  more  orna¬ 
ment  in  our  architects — that  is  what  we  want.  But 
I  think  it  is  past  praying  for.  It  would  be  better 
to  subdivide  the  work  of  the  world  according  to 
the  capacity  of  the  different  nations.  Let  Italy  and 
France  embellish  us.  We  might  do  something  in 
exchange — organize  the  French  colonies,  perhaps, 
or  the  Italian  exchequer.  That  is  our  legitimate 
work,  but  we  will  never  do  anything  at  the  other.” 

The  guide  had  already  reached  the  end  of  his 
round,  an  iron  gate  corresponding  to  that  by  which 
they  had  entered,  and  they  found  him  waiting  im¬ 
patiently  and  swinging  his  keys.  But  Maude’s 
sweet  smile  and  word  of  thanks  as  she  passed  him 
brought  content  into  his  face  once  more.  A  ray 
of  living  sunshine  is  welcome  to  the  man  who 
spends  his  days  among  the  tombs. 

I  hey  walked  down  the  north  transept  and  out 
through  Solomon’s  Porch.  The  rain  cloud  had 
swept  over  them,  and  the  summer  sun  was  shining 
upon  the  wet  streets,  turning  them  all  to  gold. 
This  might  have  been  that  fabled  London  of  which 
young  Whittington  dreamed.  In  front  of  them 
lay  the  lawns  of  vivid  green,  with  the  sunlit  rain¬ 
drops  gleaming  upon  the  grass.  The  air  was  full 
of  the  chirping  of  the  sparrows.  Across  their 


BRITAIN’S  VALHALLA. 


69 


vision,  from  the  end  of  Whitehall  to  Victoria 
Street,  the  black  ribbon  of  traffic  whirled  and  cir¬ 
cled — one  of  the  great  driving  belts  of  the  huge 
city.  Over  it  all,  to  their  right,  towered  those 
glorious  Houses  of  Parliament,  the  very  sight  of 
which  made  Frank  repent  his  hitter  words  about 
English  architecture.  They  stood  in  the  old  porch, 
gazing  at  the  scene.  It  was  so  wonderful  to  come 
hack  at  one  stride  from  the  great  country  of  the 
past  to  the  greater  country  of  the  present!  Here 
was  the  very  thing  which  these  dead  men  lived  and 
died  to  build. 

“It’s  not  much  past  three,”  said  Frank.  “What 
a  gloomy  place  to  take  you  to!  Good  Heavens! 
we  have  one  day  together,  and  I  take  you  to  a 
cemetery!  Shall  we  go  to  a  matinee  to  counter¬ 
act  it?  ” 

But  Maude  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

“  I  don’t  think,  Frank,  that  I  was  ever  more 
impressed  or  learned  more  in  so  short  a  time  in  my 
life.  It  was  a  grand  hour — an  hour  never  to  for¬ 
get.  And  you  must  not  think  that  I  am  ever  with 
you  to  he  amused.  I  am  with  you  to  accompany 
you  in  whatever  seems  to  you  to  be  highest  and 
best.  How,  before  we  leave  the  dear  old  abbey, 
promise  me  that  you  will  always  live  your  own 
highest,  and  never  come  down  to  me.” 


70 


A  DUET. 


“  I  can  very  safely  promise  that  I  will  never 
come  down  to  you,”  said  Frank.  “  I  may  climb 
all  my  life  and  yet  there  are  parts  of  your  soul 
which  will  be  like  snow  peaks  in  the  clouds  to  me. 
But  you  will  be  now  and  always  my  own  dear  com¬ 
rade  as  well  as  my  sweetest  wife.  And  now,  Maude, 
what  shall  it  be — the  theatre  or  the  Australians'?  ” 
“  Do  you  wish  to  go  to  either  very  much?  ” 

“  Not  unless  you  do.” 

“Well,  then,  I  feel  as  if  either  would  be  a 
profanation.  Let  us  walk  together  down  to  the 
embankment,  and  sit  on  one  of  the  benches  there, 
and  watch  the  river  flowing  in  the  sunshine,  and 
talk  and  think  of  all  that  we  have  seen.” 


VI. 


TWO  SOLOS  AND  A  DUET. 

The  night  before  the  wedding  Frank  Crosse 
and  his  best  man,  Rupton  Hale,  were  dined  at  the 
Raleigh  Club  by  Maude’s  brother,  J ack  Selby,  who 
was  a  young  lieutenant  in  a  Hussar  regiment.  Jack 
was  a  horsy,  slangy  young  sportsman,  who  cared 
nothing  about  Frank’s  worldly  prospects,  but  had 
given  the  match  his  absolute  approval  from  the 
moment  that  he  realized  that  his  future  brother 
had  played  for  the  second  Surrey.  “  What  more 
oan  you  want?  ”  said  he.  “  You  won’t  exactly  be 
a  Mrs.  W.  G.,  but  you  will  be  on  the  edge  of  first- 
class  cricket.”  And  Maude,  who  rejoiced  in  his 
approval  without  quite  understanding  the  grounds 
for  it,  kissed  him  and  called  Jiim  the  best  of 
brothers. 

The  marriage  was  to  be  at  eleven  o’clock  at 

St.  Luke’s  Church*  and  the  Selbys  were  putting 

up  at  the  Langham.  Frank  stayed  at  the  Me- 

tropole,  and  so  did  Rupton  Hale.  They  were  up 

early,  their,  heads  and  nerves  none  the  better  for 

71 


72 


A  DUET. 


Jack  Selby’s  hospitality  of  the  night  before.  Frank 
could  eat  no  breakfast,  and  he  shunned  publicity 
in  his  wedding  garments,  so  they  remained  in  the 
upstairs  sitting  room.  He  stood  by  the  window, 
drumming  his  fingers  upon  the  pane  and  looking 
down  into  Northumberland  Avenue.  He  had 
often  pictured  this  day,  and  associated  it  with  sun¬ 
shine  and  flowers  and  every  emblem  of  joy.  But 
Nature  had  not  risen  to  the  occasion.  A  thick 
vapour,  half  smoke,  half  cloud,  drifted  along  the 
street,  and  a  thin  persistent  rain  was  falling  stead¬ 
ily.  It  pit-patted  upon  the  windows,  splashed  upon 
the  sills,  and  gurgled  in  the  water  pipes.  Far  down 
beneath  him,  on  the  drab-coloured,  slimy  road, 
stood  the  lines  of  wet  cabs,  looking  like  beetles  with 
glistening  backs.  Hound,  black  umbrellas  hurried 
along  the  shining  pavements.  A  horse  had  fallen 
at  the  door  of  the  Constitutional  Club,  and  an  oil¬ 
skinned  policeman  was  helping  the  cabman  to  raise 
it.  Frank  watched  it  until  the  harness  had  been 
refastened  and  it  had  vanished  into  Trafalgar 
Square.  Then  he  turned  and  examined  himself 
in  the  mirror.  His  trim  black  frock  coat  and  pearl- 
gray  trousers  set  off  his  alert  athletic  figure  to  ad¬ 
vantage.  His  glossy  hat,  too,  his  lavender  gloves, 
and  dark-blue  tie  were  all  absolutely  irreproach¬ 
able.  And  yet  he  was  not  satisfied  with  himself. 


TWO  SOLOS  AND  A  DUET. 


73 


Maude  ought  to  have  something  better  than  that. 
What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  take  so  much  wine  last 
night!  On  this  day  of  all  days  in  their  lives  she 
surely  had  a  right  to  find  him  at  his  best.  He  was 
restless  and  his  nerves  were  all  quivering.  He 
would  have  given  anything  for  a  cigarette,  but  he 
did  not  wish  to  scent  himself  with  tobacco.  He 
had  cut  himself  in  shaving,  and  his  nose  was  peel¬ 
ing  from  a  hot  day  on  the  cricket  field.  What  a 
silly  thing  to  expose  his  nose  to  the  sun  before 
his  wedding!  Perhaps  when  Maude  saw  it  she 
would — well,  she  could  hardly  break  it  off,  but 
at  least  she  might  be  ashamed  of  him.  He 
worked  himself  into  a  fever  over  that  unfortunate 
nose. 

“  You  are  off  colour,  Crosse,”  said  his  best  man. 

“  I  was  just  thinking  that  my  nose  was.  It’s 
very  kind  of  you  to  come  and  stand  by  me.” 

“  That’s  all  right.  We  will  see  it  through  to¬ 
gether.” 

Hale  was  a  despondent  man,  though  the  mast 
loyal  of  friends,  and  he  spoke  in  a  despondent  way. 
His  gloomy  manner,  the  London  drizzle,  and  the 
nervousness  proper  to  the  occasion  were  all  com¬ 
bining  to  make  Prank  more  and  more  wretched. 
Fortunately,  Jack  Selby  burst  like  a  gleam  of  sun¬ 
shine  into  the  room.  The  sight  of  his  fresh-col- 


74 


A  DUET. 


oured,  smiling  face — or  it  may  have  been  some  re¬ 
minder  of  Maude  which  he  found  in  it — brought 
consolation  to  the  bridegroom. 

“  How  are  you,  Crosse?  How  do,  Hale?  Ex¬ 
cuse  my  country  manners !  The  old  Christmas  tree 
in  the  hall  wanted  to  send  for  you,  but  I  knew 
your  number.  You’re  looking  rather  green  about 
the  gills,  old  chap.” 

“  I  feel  a  little  chippy  to-day.” 

“  That’s  the  worst  of  these  cheap  champagnes. 
Late  hours  are  bad  for  the  young.  Have  a  whisky 
and  soda  with  me.  Ho? — Hale,  you  must  buck 
him  up,  for  they’ll  all  be  down  on  you  if  you  don’t 
bring  your  man  up  to  time  in  the  pink  of  condi¬ 
tion.  A  small  bottle  and  sword  exercise  for  twenty 
minutes.  That’s  the  tip.  Couldn’t  face  your 
breakfast,  eh?  Heither  could  I.  A  strawberry  and 
a  liqueur  glass  of  soda  water.” 

“  How  are  they  all  at  the  Langham?  ”  asked 
Frank  eagerly. 

“Oh,  splendid!  At  least,  I  haven’t  seen  Maude. 
She’s  been  getting  into  parade  order.  But  mother 
is  full  of  beans.  We  had  to  take  her  up  one  hole 
in  the  curb,  or  there  would  have  been  no  holding 
her.” 

Frank’s  eyes  kept  turning  to  the  slow-moving 
minute  hand.  It  was  not  ten  o’clock  yet. 


TWO  SOLOS  AND  A  DUET. 


75 


“  Don’t  you  think  that  I  might  go  round  to 
the  Langham  and  see  them?  ” 

“  Good  Lord,  no!  Clean  against  regulations. 
— Stand  by  his  head,  Hale! — Whoa,  boy,  steady!  ” 

“  It  won’t  do,  Crosse,  it  really  won’t!”  said 
Hale  solemnly. 

“  What  rot  it  is!  Here  am  I  doing  nothing, 
and  I  might  be  some  use  or  encouragement  to  her. 
Let’s  get  a  cab!  ” 

“  Whoa,  laddie!  whoa,  then,  boy! — Keep  him 
in  hand,  Hale!  ” 

Frank  flung  himself  down  into  an  armchair  and 
muttered  about  absurd  conventions. 

“  It  can’t  be  helped,  my  boy.  It  is  cor¬ 
rect.” 

“  Buck  up,  Crosse,  buck  up!  We’ll  make  the 
thing  go  with  a  buzz  when  we  do  begin.  Two  of 
our  Johnnies  are  coming,  regular  fizzers,  and  full 
of  blood  both  of  them.  We’ll  paint  the  Langham 
a  fine  bright  solferino  when  the  church  parade  is 
over.” 

Frank  sat  rather  sulkily  watching  the  slow  min¬ 
ute  hand,  and  listening  to  the  light-hearted  chatter 
of  the  boy  lieutenant  and  the  more  deliberate  an¬ 
swers  of  his  best  man.  At  last  he  jumped  up  and 
seized  his  hat  and  gloves. 

“  Half  past,”  said  he.  “  Come  on!  I  can’t 


76 


A  DUET. 


wait  any  longer.  I  must  do  something.  It  is  time 
we  went  to  the  church.” 

“  Fall  in  for  the  church!  ”  cried  Jack.  “  Wait 
a  bit!  I  know  this  game,  for  I  was  best  man  my¬ 
self  last  month.  Inspect  his  kit,  Hale.  See  that 
he’s  according  to  regulations.  King?  All  right. 
Parson’s  money?  Right,  oh!  Small  change? 

Good!  By  the  right,  quick  march!  ” 

* 

Frank  soon  recovered  his  spirits  now  that  he 
had  something  to  do.  Even  that  drive  through 
the  streaming  streets,  with  the  rain  pattering  upon 
the  top  of  their  four-wheeler,  could  not  depress 
him  any  longer.  He  rose  to  the  level  of  Jack 
Selby,  and  they  chattered  gaily  together. 

“  Ain’t  we  bringing  him  up  fighting  fit!  ”  cried 
Jack  exultantly.  “  Shows  that  all  the  care  we 
have  taken  of  him  in  the  last  twenty-four  hours  has 
not  been  wasted.  That’s  the  sort  I  like — game 
as  a  pebble!  You  can’t  buy  ’em;  you  have  to 
breed  ’em.  A  regular  fizzer  he  is,  and  full  of  blood. 
And  here  we  are  on  the  ground.” 

It  was  a  low,  old-fashioned  gray  church,  with 
a  Gothic  entrance  and  two  niches  on  either  side, 
which  spoke  of  pre-Lutheran  days.  Cheap  mod¬ 
ern  shops  which  banked  it  in  showed  up  the  quaint 
dignity  of  the  ancient  front.  The  side  door  was 
open,  and  they  passed  into  its  dim-lit  interior,  with 


TWO  SOLOS  AND  A  DUET. 


77 


high  carved  pews  and  rich  old  stained  glass.  Huge 
black  oak  beams  curved  over  their  heads,  and  dim 
inscriptions  of  mediaeval  Latin  curled  and  writhed 
upon  the  walls.  A  single  step  seemed  to  have  taken 
them  from  the  atmosphere  of  the  nineteenth  to  that 
of  the  fifteenth  century. 

“  What  a  ripping  old  church!’’  Jack  whis¬ 
pered.  “  You  can’t  buy  ’em.  But  it’s  as  festive 
as  an  ice-house.  There’s  a  friendly  native  coming 
down  the  aisle.  He’s  your  man,  Hale,  if  you  want 
the  news.” 

The  verger  was  not  in  the  best  of  tempers. 

“  It’s  at  quarter  to  four,”  said  he,  as  Hale 
met  him. 

“  Ho,  no;  at  eleven.” 

“  Quarter  to  four,  I  tell  you.  The  vicar 
says  so.” 

“  Why,  it’s  not  legal  after  twelve.” 

“  We  have  them  at  all  hours.” 

“  Have  what?  ” 

“  Buryin’s.” 

“  But  this  is  a  marriage.” 

“  I’m  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  thought 
when  I  looked  at  you  as  you  was  the  party  about 
the  child’s  funeral.” 

“  Good  Heavens,  no !  ” 

“  It  was  something  in  your  expression,  sir; 


78 


A  DUET. 


but  now  that  I  can  see  the  colour  of  your  clothes, 
why,  of  course,  I  know  better.  There’s  three  mar¬ 
riages.  Which  was  it?” 

“  Crosse  and  Selby  are  the  names.” 

The  verger  consulted  an  old  crumpled  note¬ 
book. 

“  Yes,  sir,  I  have  it  here.  Mr.  or  Miss  Crosse 
to  Mr.  or  Miss  Selby.  Eleven  o’clock,  sir,  sharp . 
The  vicar’s  a  terrible  punctual  man,  and  I  should 
advise  you  to  take  your  places.” 

“  Any  hitch?  ”  asked  Frank  nervously,  as  Hale 
returned. 

“  Ho,  no.” 

“  What  was  he  talking  about?  ” 

“  Oh,  nothing.  Some  little  confusion  of 
ideas.” 

“  Shall  we  go  up?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  think  that  we  had  better.” 

Their  steps  clattered  and  reverberated  through 
the  empty  church  as  they  passed  up  the  aisle.  They 
stood  in  an  aimless  way  before  the  altar  rails. 
Frank  fidgeted  about,  and  made  sure  that  the  ring 
was  in  his  ticket  pocket.  He  also  took  a  five-pound 
note  and  placed  it  where  he  knew  he  could  lay  his 
hands  upon  it  easily.  Then  he  sprang  round  with 
a  flush  upon  his  cheeks,  for  one  of  the  side  doors 
had  been  flung  open  with  a  great  bustle  and  clang- 


TWO  SOLOS  AND  A  DUET. 


79 


in g.  A  stout  charwoman  entered  with  a  tin  pail 
and  a  mop. 

“  Put  up  the  wrong  bird  that  time/’  whispered 
Jack,  and  sniggered  at  Frank’s  change  of  expres¬ 
sion. 

But  almost  at  the  same  instant  the  Selbys  en¬ 
tered  the  church  at  the  farther  end.  Mr.  Selby, 
with  his  red  face  and  fluffy  side  whiskers,  had 
Maude  upon  his  arm.  She  looked  very  pale  and 
very  sweet,  with  downcast  eyes  and  solemn  mouth, 
while  behind  her  walked  her  younger  sister  Mary 
and  her  pretty  friend  Nelly  Sheridan,  both  in  pink 
dresses  with  broad  pink  hats  and  white  curling 
feathers.  The  bride  was  herself  in  the  gray  trav¬ 
elling  dress  with  which  Frank  was  already  familiar 
by  its  description  in  her  letter.  Its  gentle  tint 
and  her  tenderly  grave  expression  made  a  charm¬ 
ing  effect.  Behind  them  was  the  mother,  still 
young  and  elegant,  with  something  of  Maude’s 
grace  in  her  figure  and  carriage.  As  the  party 
came  up  the  aisle,  Frank  was  to  be  restrained  no 
longer.  “  Head  him  off!  ”  cried  Jack  to  Hale  in 
an  excited  whisper;  but  he  was  already  hurrying 
to  shake  hands  with  Maude.  He  walked  up  on  her 
right,  and  they  took  their  position  in  two  little 
groups,  the  happy  couple  in  the  centre.  At  the 
same  moment  the  clang  of  the  church  clock  sound- 


80 


A  DUET. 


ed  above  them,  and  the  vicar,  shrugging  his  shoul¬ 
ders  to  get  his  white  surplice  into  position,  came 
hustling  out  of  the  vestry.  To  him  it  was  all  the 
most  usual,  commonplace,  and  unimportant  thing 
in  the  world,  and  both  Frank  and  Maude  were  filled 
with  amazement  at  the  nonchalant  way  in  which 
he  whipped  out  a  prayer-book  and  began  to  rapidly 
perform  the  ceremony.  It  was  all  so  new  and  sol¬ 
emn  and  all-important  to  them  that  they  had  ex¬ 
pected  something  mystic  and  overpowering  in  the 
function;  and  yet  here  was  this  brisk  little  man, 
with  an  obvious  cold  in  his  head,  tying  them  up 
in  as  businesslike  a  fashion  as  a  grocer  uniting  two 
parcels.  After  all,  he  had  to  do  it  a  thousand  times 
a  year,  and  so  he  could  not  be  extravagant  in  his 
emotions. 

The  singular  service  was  read  out  to  them,  the 
exhortations  and  the  explanations,  sometimes  state¬ 
ly,  sometimes  beautiful,  sometimes  odious.  Then 
the  little  vicar  turned  upon  Frank. 

“  Wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  thy  wedded 
wife,  to  live  together  after  God’s  ordinance  in  the 
holy  estate  of  matrimony?  Wilt  thou  love  her, 
comfort  her,  honour  her  in  sickness  and  in  health, 
and,  forsaking  all  other,  keep  thee  only  unto  her 
as  long  as  ye  both  shall  live?  ” 

“  I  will,”  cried  Frank  with  conviction. 


TWO  SOLOS  AND  A  DUET. 


81 


“  And  wilt  thou  have  this  man  to  thy  wedded 
husband,  to  live  together  after  God's  ordinance  in 
the  holy  estate  of  matrimony?  Wilt  thou  obey 
him  and  serve  him,  love,  honour,  and  keep  him  in 
sickness  and  in  health,  and,  forsaking  all  other, 
keep  thee  only  unto  him  so  long  as  ye  both  shall 
live?  ” 

“  I  will,”  said  Maude  from  her  heart. 

“  Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this 
man?  ” 

i 

“  I  do — Mr.  J ohn  Selby,  her  father,  you 
know.” 

And  then  in  turn  they  repeated  the  fateful 
words. 

“  I  take  thee  to  have  and  to  hold  from  this  day 
forward,  for  better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer, 
in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love,  cherish,  and  obey, 
till  death  us  do  part,  according  to  God’s  holy  ordi¬ 
nance,  and  thereto  I  give  thee  my  troth.” 

“Ring!  ring!”  said  Hale. 

“Ring,  you  Juggins!  ”  whispered  Jack  Selby. 

Frank  thrust  his  hands  frantically  into  all  his 
pockets.  The  ring  was  in  the  last  one  which  he  at¬ 
tempted.  But  the  bank-note  was  not  to  be  found. 
He  remembered  that  he  had  put  it  in  some  safe 
place.  Where  could  it  have  been?  Was  it  in  his 
boot?  Or  in  the  lining  of  his  hat?  Ho,  surely  he 


82 


A  DUET. 


could  not  have  done  anything  so  infatuated.  Again 
he  took  his  pockets  two  at  a  time,  while  a  dreadful 
pause  came  in  the  ceremony. 

“  Vestry — afterward/’  whispered  the  clergy¬ 
man. 

“  Here  you  are!  ”  gasped  Frank.  lie  had  come 
upon  it  in  a  last  desperate  dive  into  his  watch 
pocket,  in  which  he  never  by  any  chance  kept  any¬ 
thing.  Of  course,  it  was  for  that  very  reason,  that 
it  might  be  alone  and  accessible,  that  he  had  placed 
it  there.  Ring  and  note  were  handed  to  the  vicar, 
who  deftly  concealed  the  one  and  returned  the 
other.  Then  Maude’s  little  white  hand  was  out¬ 
stretched,  and  over  the  third  linger  Frank  slipped 
that  fateful  circlet  of  gold. 

“  With  this  ring  I  thee  wed,”  said  Frank,  “  and 
with  my  body  I  thee  worship  ”  (he  paused  and 
made  a  mental  emendation  of  “  with  my  soul 
also  ”),  “  and  with  all  my  worldly  goods  I  thee 
endow.” 

There  was  a  prayer,  and  then  the  vicar  joined 
the  two  hands,  the  muscular  sunburned  one  and 
the  dainty  white  one  with  the  new  ring  gleaming 
upon  it. 

“  Those  whom  God  hath  joined  together  let 
no  man  put  asunder,”  said  he.  “  Forasmuch  as 
Francis  Crosse  and  Maude  Selby  have  consented 


TWO  SOLOS  AND  A  DUET. 


83 


together  in  holy  wedlock,  and  have  witnessed  the 
same  before  God  and  this  company,  and  thereto 
have  given  and  pledged  their  troth  either  to  other, 
and  have  declared  the  same  by  giving  and  receiving 
of  a  ring  and  by  joining  of  hands,  I  pronounce 
that  they  be  man  and  wife  together.” 

There,  now,  it  was  done!  They  were  one, 
never  more  to  part  until  the  coffin  lid  closed  over 
one  or  the  other.  They  were  kneeling  together 
now,  and  the  vicar  was  rapidly  repeating  some 
psalms  and  prayers.  But  Frank’s  mind  was  not 
with  the  ritual.  ITe  looked  slantwise  at  the  grace¬ 
ful,  girlish  figure  by  his  side.  Her  hair  hung  beau¬ 
tifully  over  her  white  neck,  and  the  reverent  droop 
of  her  head  was  lovely  to  his  eyes.  So  gentle,  so 
humble,  so  good,  so  beautiful,  and  all  his,  his  sworn 
life  companion  forever !  A  gush  of  tenderness 
flowed  through  his  heart  for  her.  His  love  had 
always  been  passionate,  but  for  the  instant  it  was 
heroic,  tremendous  in  its  unselfishness.  Might  he 
bring  her  happiness,  the  highest  which  woman 
could  wish  for !  God  grant  that  he  might  do  so ! 
But  if  he  was  to  make  her  unhappy,  or  to  take  any¬ 
thing  from  her  beauty  and  her  goodness,  then  he 
prayed  that  he  might  die  now,  at  this  supreme  mo¬ 
ment,  kneeling  at  her  side  before  the  altar  rails. 
So  intense  was  his  prayer  that  he  looked  up  ex- 


84 


A  DUET. 


pectantly  at  the  altar,  as  if  in  the  presence  of  an 
imminent  catastrophe.  But  every  one  had  risen 
to  their  feet,  and  the  service  was  at  an  end.  The 
vicar  led  the  way,  and  they  all  followed  him  into 
the  vestry.  There  was  a  general  murmur  all  round 
them  of  congratulation  and  approval. 

“  Heartiest  congratulations,  Crosse  !  ”  said 
Hale. 

“  Bravo,  Maude,  you  looked  ripping!  ”  cried 
Jack,  kissing  his  sister.  “  By  Jove!  it  simply  -went 
with  a  buzz  from  the  word  ‘  go.’  ” 

“  You  sign  it  here  and  here,”  said  the  vicar, 
“  and  the  witnesses  here  and  here.  Thank  you 
very  much.  I  am  sure  that  I  wish  you  every  hap¬ 
piness.  I  need  not  detain  you  by  any  further  for¬ 
mality.” 

And  so,  with  a  curious  dreamlike  feeling, 
Frank  Crosse  and  Maude  found  themselves  walk¬ 
ing  down  the  aisle,  he  very  proud  and  erect,  she 
very  gentle  and  shy,  while  the  organ  thundered 
the  wedding  march.  Carriages  were  waiting.  He 
handed  in  his  wife,  stepped  in  after  her,  and  they 
drove  off  amid  a  murmur  of  sympathy  from  a  little 
knot  of  idlers  who  had  gathered  in  the  porch,  partly 
from  curiosity  and  partly  to  escape  from  the  rain. 

Maude  had  often  driven  alone  with  Frank  be¬ 
fore,  but  now  she  felt  suddenly  *  constrained  and 


TWO  SOLOS  AND  A  DUET. 


85 


shy.  The  marriage  service,  with  all  its  half-under¬ 
stood  allusions  and  exhortations,  had  depressed  and 
frightened  her.  She  hardly  dared  to  glance  at  her 
husband.  But  he  soon  led  her  out  of  her  graver 
humour. 

“  Name,  please?”  said  he. 

“  O  Frank !  ” 

“  Name,  if  you  please?  ” 

“  Why,  you  know.” 

“  Say  it.” 

“  Maude.” 

“  That  all?” 

“  Maude  Crosse.  O  Frank!” 

“  You  blessing!  IIow  grand  it  sounds!  O 
Maude!  what  a  jolly  old  world  it  is!  Isn’t  it  pretty 
to  see  the  rain  falling?  And  aren’t  the  shining 
pavements  lovely?  And  isn’t  everything  splendid, 
and  am  I  not  the  luckiest,  the  most  incredibly 
lucky  of  men?  Dear  girlie,  give  me  your  hand! 
I  can  feel  it  under  the  glove.  Now,  sweetheart, 
you  are  not  frightened,  are  you?  ” 

“  Not  now.” 

“  You  were?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  was  a  little.  O  Frank!  you  won’t  tire 
of  me,  will  you?  I  should  break  my  heart  if  you 
did.” 

“  Tire  of  you]  Good  Heavens!  Now,  you’ll 


86 


A  DUET. 


never  guess  what  I  was  doing  while  the  parson  was 
telling  us  about  what  St.  Paul  said  to  the  Colossians 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.” 

“  I  know  perfectly  well  what  you  were  doing. 
And  you  shouldn’t  have  done  it.” 

“  What  was  I  doing,  then?  ” 

“  You  were  staring  at  me.” 

“  Oh,  you  saw  that,  did  you?  ” 

“  I  felt  it.” 

“  Well,  I  was.  But  I  was  praying  also.” 

“  Were  you,  Frank?  ” 

“  When  I  saw  you  kneeling  there,  so  sweet  and 
pure  and  good,  I  seemed  to  realize  how  you  had 
been  given  into  my  keeping  for  life,  and  I  prayed 
with  all  my  heart  that  if  I  should  ever  injure  you 
in  thought  or  word  or  deed  I  might  drop  dead  now 
before  I  had  time  to  do  it.” 

“  0  Frank!  what  a  dreadful  prayer!  ” 

“  But  I  felt  it  and  I  wished  it,  and  I  could  not 
help  it.  My  own  darling,  there  you  are,  just  a  liv¬ 
ing  angel,  the  gentlest,  most  sensitive,  and  beauti¬ 
ful  living  creature  that  walks  the  earth,  and,  please 
God,  I  will  keep  you  so,  and  ever  higher  and 
higher — if  such  a  thing  is  possible — ‘and  if  ever  I 
say  a  word  or  do  a  deed  that  seems  to  lower  you, 
then  remind  me  of  this  moment,  and  send  me  back 
to  try  to  live  up  to  our  highest  ideal  again.  And 


TWO  SOLOS  AND  A  DUET. 


87 


I  for  my  part  will  try  to  improve  myself  and  to 
live  up  to  you,  and  to  bridge  more  and  more  the 
gap  that  is  between  us,  that  I  may  feel  myself  not 
altogether  unworthy  of  your  love.  And  so  we  will 
act  and  react  upon  each  other,  ever  growing  bet¬ 
ter  and  wiser,  and  dating  what  is  best  and  bright¬ 
est  in  our  minds  and  souls  from  the  day  that  we 
were  married.  And  that’s  my  idea  of  a  marriage 
service;  and  here  endeth  the  first  lesson,  and  the 
windows  are  blurred  with  rain,  and  hang  the  coach¬ 
man,  and  it’s  hard  lines  if  a  man  may  not  kiss  his 
own  wife — you  blessing!  ” 

A  broad-brimmed  hat  with  a  curling  feather 
is  not  a  good  shape  for  driving  with  an  ardent 
young  bridegroom  in  a  discreetly  rain-blurred  car¬ 
riage.  Frank  demonstrated  the  fact,  and  it  took 
them  all  the  way  to  the  Langham  to  get  those  pins 
driven  home  again.  And  then  after  an  abnormal 
meal,  which  was  either  a  very  late  breakfast  or  a 
very  early  lunch,  they  drove  on  to  Victoria  sta¬ 
tion,  from  which  they  were  to  start  for  Eastbourne. 
Jack  Selby  and  the  two  regimental  fizzers,  who 
had  secured  immortality  for  the  young  couple  if 
the  deep  and  constant  drinking  of  healths  could 
have  done  it,  had  provided  themselves  with  pack¬ 
ages  of  rice,  old  slippers,  and  other  time-honoured 
missiles.  On  a  hint  from  Maude,  however,  that 


88 


A  DUET. 


she  would  prefer  a  quiet  departure,  Frank  coaxed 
the  three  back  into  the  luncheon  room  with  a  per¬ 
fectly  guileless  face,  and  then,  locking  the  door 
on  the  outside,  handed  the  key  and  a  half  sovereign 
to  the  head  waiter  with  instructions  to  release  the 
prisoners  when  the  carriage  had  gone — an  incident 
which  in  itself  would  cause  the  judicious  observer 
to  think  that,  given  the  opportunity,  Mr.  Frank 
Crosse  had  it  in  him  to  go  pretty  far  in  life.  And 
so,  quietly  and  soberly,  they  rolled  away  upon 
their  first  journey — the  journey  which  was  the 
opening  of  that  life’s  journey  the  goal  of  which 
no  man  may  see. 


VII. 


KEEPING  UP  APPEARANCES. 

It  was  in  the  roomy  dining  room  of  the  Hotel 
Met.ropole  at  Brighton.  Maude  and  Frank  were 
seated  at  their  favourite  small  round  table  near  the 
window  where  they  always  lunched.  Their  im¬ 
mediate  view  was  a  snowy-white  tablecloth  with  a 
shining  entree  dish  of  foppish  little  cutlets,  each 
with  a  wisp  of  ornamental  paper,  and  a  surround¬ 
ing  bank  of  mashed  potatoes.  Beyond,  from  the 
very  base  of  the  window,  as  it  seemed,  there 
stretched  the  huge  expanse  of  the  deep  blue  sea, 
its  soothing  mass  of  colour  broken  only  by  a  few 
white  leaning  sails  upon  the  farthest  horizon. 
Along  the  sky  line  the  white  clouds  lay  in  care¬ 
lessly  piled  cumuli,  like  snow  thrown  up  from  a 
clearing.  It  was  restful  and  beautiful  that  distant 
view,  but  just  at  the  moment  it  was  the  near  one 
which  interested  them  both.  Though  they  lose 

from  this  moment  onward  the  sympathy  of  every 

7  89 


90 


A  DUET. 


sentimental  reader,  the  truth  must  be  told  that 
they  were  thoroughly  enjoying  their  lunch. 

With  the  wonderful  adaptability  of  women — 
a  hereditary  faculty,  which  depends  upon  the  fact 
that  from  the  beginning  of  time  the  sex  has  been 
continually  employed  in  making  the  best  of  situa¬ 
tions  which  were  not  of  their  own  choosing — 
Maude  carried  off  her  new  character  easily  and 
gracefully.  In  her  trim  blue  serge  dress  and  sailor 
hat,  with  the  warm  tint  of  yesterday’s  sun  upon 
her  cheeks,  she  was  the  very  picture  of  happy  and 
healthy  womanhood.  Frank  was  also  in  a  blue 
serge  boating  suit,  which  was  appropriate  enough, 
for  they' spent  most  of  their  time  upon  the  water, 
as  a  glance  at  his  hands  would  tell.  Their  con¬ 
versation  was,  unhappily,  upon  a  very  much  lower 
plane  than  when  we  overheard  them  last. 

“  I’ve  got  such  an  appetite!  ” 

“  So  have  I,  Frank.” 

“  Capital!  Have  another  cutlet?” 

“  Thank  you,  dear.” 

“  Potatoes?  ” 

“  Please.” 

“  I  always  thought  that  people  on  their  honey¬ 
moon  lived  on  love.” 

“  Yes,  isn’t  it  dreadful,  Frank?  We  must  be 
so  material.” 


KEEPING  UP  APPEARANCES. 


91 


“  Good  old  Mother  Nature!  Cling  on  to  her 
skirt,  and  you  never  lose  your  way.  One  wants  a 
healthy  physical  basis  for  a  healthy  spiritual  emo¬ 
tion.  A  morbid  body  makes  a  morbid  soul.  Might 
I  trouble  you  for  the  pickles?  ” 

“  Are  you  happy,  Frank?  ” 

“  Absolutely  and  completely.” 

“  Quite,  quite  sure?  ” 

“  I  never  was  quite  so  sure  of  anything.” 

“  It  makes  me  so  happy  to  hear  you  say  so!  ” 

“  And  you?  ” 

“  O  Frank!  I  am  just  floating  upon  golden 
clouds  in  a  dream.  But  your  poor  hands!  Oh, 
how  they  must  pain  you!  ” 

“  Not  a  bit.” 

“  It  was  that  heavy  oar.” 

“  I  get  no  practice  at  rowing.  There  is  no 
place  to  row  in  at  Woking  unless  one  used  the 
canal.  But  it  was  worth  a  blister  or  two.  By 
Jove!  wasn’t  it  splendid,  coming  back  in  the  moon¬ 
light,  with  that  silver  lane  lying  on  the  water  in 
front  of  us?  We  were  so  completely  alone!  We 
might  have  been  up  in  the  interstellar  spaces,  you 
and  I,  travelling  from  Sirius  to  Arcturus  in  one 
of  those  profound  gulfs  of  the  void  which  Hardy 
talks  about.  It  was  overpowering.” 

“  I  can  never  forget  it.” 


92 


A  DUET. 


“  We’ll  go  again  to-night/’ 

“  But  the  blisters?  ” 

"  Hang  the  blisters !  And  we’ll  take  some  bait 
with  us  and  try  to  catch  something.” 

“  What  fun!  ” 

“  And  we’ll  drive  to  Rottingdean  this  after¬ 
noon,  if  you  feel  inclined.  Have  this  last  cutlet, 
dear!  ” 

“  Ho,  thank  you.” 

“  Well,  it  seems  a  pity  to  waste  it.  Here  goes! 
By  the  way,  Maude,  I  must  speak  very  severely 

to  you.  But  I  can’t  if  you  look  at  me  like  that. 

But  really,  joking  apart,  you  must  be  more  careful 
before  the  waiters.” 

u  Why,  dear?  ” 

“  Well,  we  have  carried  it  off  splendidly  so  far. 
Ho  one  has  found  out  yet,  and  no  one  will 

if  we  are  reasonably  careful.  The  fat  waiter 
is  convinced  that  we  are  veterans.  But  last 

night  at  dinner  you  very  nearly  gave  the  thing 
away.” 

“  Did  I,  Frank?” 

“  Don’t  look  so  sweetly  penitent,  you  blessing ! 
The  fact  is,  that  you  make  a  shocking  bad  con¬ 
spirator.  How,  I  have  a  kind  of  talent  for  that, 
as  I  have  for  every  other  sort  of  depravity,  so  it 
will  be  pretty  safe  in  my  hands.  You  are  as 


KEEPING  UP  APPEARANCES. 


93 


straight  as  a  line  by  nature,  and  you  can’t  be 
crooked  when  you  try.” 

“  But  what  did  I  say?  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry!  I 
tried  to  be  so  careful.” 

“  Well,  about  the  curry,  you  know.  It  was  an 
error  of  judgment  to  ask  if  I  took  chutnee.  And 
then - ” 

“  Something  else?  ” 

u  About  the  boots.  Did  I  get  them  in  London 
or  Woking.” 

“  Oh,  dear,  dear!  ” 

“  And  then - ” 

“  Not  another!  O  Frank!” 

“  Well,  the  use  of  the  word  ‘  my.’  You  must 
give  that  word  up.  It  should  be  c  our.’  ” 

“  I  know,  I  know.  It  was  when  I  said  that 
the  salt  water  had  taken  the  curl  out  of  the  feather 
in  my —  No,  in  our —  Well,  in  the  hat.” 

“  That  was  all  right.  But  it  is  our  luggage, 
you  know,  and  our  room,  and  so  on.” 

“  Of  course  it  is.  How  foolish  I  am!  Then 
the  waiter  knows?  0  Frank!  what  shall  we 
do?” 

“  Hot  he.  He  knows  nothing.  I  am  sure  of 
it.  He  is  a  dull  sort  of  person.  I  had  my  eye  on 
him  all  the  time.  Besides,  I  threw  in  a  few  re¬ 
marks  just  to  set  the  thing  right.” 


94 


A  DUET. 


“  That  was  when  you  spoke  about  our  travels 
in  the  Tyrol?  ” 

“  Yes” 

“ O  Trank!  how  could  you?  And  you  said 
how  lonely  it  was  when  we  were  the  only  visitors 
at  the  Swiss  hotel.” 

“  That  was  an  inspiration.  That  finished  him.” 

“  And  about  the  closeness  of  the  Atlantic  state¬ 
rooms.  I  blushed  to  hear  you.” 

“  But  he  listened  eagerly  to  it  all.  I  could 
see  it.” 

“  I  wonder  if  he  really  believed  it.  I  have  no¬ 
ticed  that  the  maids  and  the  waiters  seem  to  look 
at  us  with  a  certain  interest.” 

u  My  dear  girlie,  you  will  find  as  you  go  through 
life  that  every  man  will  always  look  at  you  with  a 
certain  interest.” 

Maude  smiled,  but  was  unconvinced. 

u  Cheese,  dear?  ” 

“  A  little  butter,  please.” 

“  Some  butter,  waiter,  and  the  Stilton. — You 
know,  the  real  fact  is  that  we  make  the  mistake 
of  being  much  too  nice  to  each  other  in  public. 
Veterans  don’t  do  that.  They  take  the  small 
courtesies  for  granted — which  is  all  wrong,  but  it 
shows  that  they  arc  veterans.  That  is  where  we 
give  ourselves  away.” 


KEEPING  UP  APPEARANCES. 


95 


<e  That  never  occurred  to  me.” 

“  If  you  want  to  settle  that  waiter  forever,  and 
remove  the  last  lingering  doubt  from  his  mind,  the 
thing  is  for  you  to  be  rude  to  me.” 

“  Or  you  to  me,  Frank.” 

“  Sure  you  won’t  mind?” 

“  Not  a  bit.” 

u  Oh,  hang  it,  I  can’t!  Not  even  for  so  good 
an  object.” 

“  Well,  then,  I  can’t  either.” 

“  But  this  is  absurd.  It  is  only  acting.” 

“  Quite  so.  It  is  only  fun.” 

“  Then  why  won’t  you  do  it?  ” 

“  Why  won’t  you?  ” 

“  He’ll  be  back  before  we  settle  it.  Look  here! 
I’ve  a  shilling  under  my  hand.  Heads  or  tails,  and 
the  loser  has  to  be  rude.  Do  you  agree?  ” 

“  Very  well.” 

u  Your  call.” 

“  Heads!” 

“  It’s  tails.” 

u  Oh,  goodness!  ” 

“  You’ve  got  to  be  rude.  Now,  mind  you  are! 
Here  he  comes.” 

The  waiter  had  come  up  the  room  bearing  the 
pride  of  the  hotel,  the  grand  green  Stilton,  with 
the  beautiful  autumn  leaf  heart  shading  away  to 


96 


A  DUET. 


rich  plum-coloured  cavities.  He  placed  it  on  the 
table  with  a  solemn  air. 

“  It’s  a  beautiful  Stilton!”  Frank  remarked. 

Maude  tried  desperately  to  be  rude. 

“  Well,  dear,  I  don’t  think  it  is  so  very  beauti¬ 
ful,”  was  the  best  that  she  could  do. 

It  was  not  much,  but  it  had  a  surprising  effect 
upon  the  waiter.  Fie  turned  and  hurried  away. 

u  There,  now,  you’ve  shocked  him!”  cried 
Frank. 

“  Where  has  he  gone,  Frank?  ’ 

“  To  complain  to  the  management  about  your 
language.” 

“  No,  Frank.  Please  tell  me!  Oh,  I  wish  I 
hadn’t  been  so  rude.  Here  he  is  again.” 

“  All  right.  Sit  tight,”  said  Frank. 

A  sort  of  procession  was  streaming  up  the  hall. 
There  was  their  fat  waiter  in  front  with  a  large 
covered  cheese  dish.  Behind  him  was  another 
with  two  smaller  ones,  and  a  third  with  some  yel¬ 
low  powder  upon  a  plate  was  bringing  up  the  rear. 

“  This  is  Gorgonzola,  mam,”  said  the  waiter, 
with  a  severe  manner.  “  And  there’s  Comembert 
and  Gruyere  be’ind,  and  powdered  Parmesan  as 
well.  I’m  sorry  that  the  Stilton  don’t  give  satis¬ 
faction.” 

Maude  helped  herself  to  Gorgonzola,  and  looked 


KEEPING  UP  APPEARANCES. 


97 


very  guilty  and  uncomfortable.  Frank  began  to 
laugh. 

“  I  meant  you  to  be  rude  to  me,  not  to  the 
cheese/’  said  he  when  the  procession  had  with¬ 
drawn. 

“  I  did  my  best,  Frank.  I  contradicted  you.” 

“  Oh,  it  was  a  shocking  display  of  temper!  ” 

“  And  I  hurt  the  poor  waiter’s  feelings.” 

“  Yes,  you’ll  have  to  apologize  to  his  Stilton 
before  he  will  forgive  you.” 

“  And  I  don’t  believe  he  is  a  bit  more  con¬ 
vinced  that  we  are  veterans  than  he  was  before.” 

“  All  right,  dear!  Leave  him  to  me.  Those 
reminiscences  of  mine  must  have  settled  him.  If 
they  didn’t,  then  I  fear  that  it  is  hopeless.” 

It  was  as  well  for  his  peace  of  mind  that  Frank 
could  not  hear  the  conversation  between  the  fat 
waiter  and  their  chambermaid,  for  whom  he  nour¬ 
ished  a  plethoric  attachment.  They  had  half  an 
hour  oif  in  the  afternoon,  and  were  comparing 
notes. 

“  FTice-lookin’  couple,  ain’t  they,  John?  ”  said 
the  maid,  with  the  air  of  an  expert.  “  I  don’t  know 
as  we’ve  ’ad  a  better  since  the  spring  weddin’s.” 

“  I  don’t  know  as  I’d  go  as  far  as  that,”  said 
the  fat  waiter  critically.  “  ’E’d  pass  all  right.  ’E’s 


98 


A  DUET. 


an  upstandin’  young  man,  with  a  good  sperrit  in 
’im.” 

“  What’s  wrong  with  ’er,  then?  ” 

a 

“  It’s  a  matter  of  opinion,”  said  the  wTaiter. 
“  I  likes  ’em  a  bit  more  full  flavoured  myself.  And 
as  to  ’er  taste,  why,  there,  if  you  ’ad  seen  ’er  turn 
up  ’er  nose  at  the  Stilton  at  lunch.” 

“  Turn  up  ’er  nose,  did  she?  Well,  she  seemed 
to  me  a  very  soft-spoken,  obligin’  young  lady.” 

“  So  she  may  be,  but  they’re  a  queer  couple, 
I  tell  you.  It’s  as  well  they  are  married  at  last.” 

“  Why?  ” 

“  Because  they  ’ave  been  goin’  on  most  ow- 
dacious  before’and.  I  ’ave  it  from  their  own  lips, 
and  it  fairly  made  me  blush  to  listen  to  it.  Awful 
it  was,  awful!  ” 

“  You  don’t  say  that,  John!  ” 

“  I  tell  you,  Jane,  I  couldn’t  ’ardly  believe  my 
ears.  They  was  married  on  Tuesday  last,  as  we 
know  well,  and  to-day’s  Times  to  prove  it,  and  yet 
if  you’ll  believe  me  they  was  talkin’  about  ’ow 
they  ’ad  travelled  alone  abroad - ” 

“  Never,  John!  ” 

“  And  alone  in  a  Swiss  ’otel.” 

“  My  goodness !  ” 

“  And  a  steamer,  too.” 

“  Well,  there!  I’ll  never  trust  any  one  again.” 


KEEPING  UP  APPEARANCES. 


99 


“  Oh,  a  perfec’  pair  of  scorchers !  But  I’ll  let 
’im  see  as  I  knows  it.  I’ll  put  that  Times  be¬ 
fore  ’im  to-night  at  dinner  as  sure  as  my  name’s 
John.” 

“  And  a  good  lesson  to  them,  too !  If  you 
didn’t  say  you’d  ’eard  it  from  their  own  lips,  John, 
I  never  could  ’ave  believed  it.  It’s  things  like 
that  as  shakes  your  trust  in  ’uman  nature.” 

Maude  and  Frank  were  lingering  at  the  table 
dChote  over  their  walnuts  and  a  glass  of  port  wine 
when  their  waiter  came  softly  behind  them. 

“  Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  did  you  see  it  in  the 
Times?  ” 

a  See  what?  ” 

“  That,  sir.  I  thought  that  it  might  be  of  in¬ 
terest  to  you  and  to  your  good  lady  to  see  it.” 

He  had  laid  one  page  of  the  paper  before  them 
with  his  forefinger  upon  an  item  in  the  left-hand 
top  corner.  Then  he  discreetly  withdrew.  Frank 
stared  at  it  in  horror. 

“  Maude,  your  people  have  gone  and  put  it  in.” 

“  Our  marriage!  ” 

“Here  it  is!  Listen!  e  Crosse — Selby.  30th 
June,  at  St.  Luke’s  Church,  by  the  Rev.  John  Tud- 
well,  M.  A.,  Yicar  of  St.  Luke’s,  Frank  Crosse,  of 
May  bury  Road,  Woking,  to  Maude  Selby,  eldest 


100 


A  DUET. 


daughter  of  Robert  Selby,  Esq.,  of  St.  Albans.’ 
Great  Scott,  Maude!  What  shall  we  do?  ” 

“  Well,  dear,  does  it  matter?  ” 

“  Matter!  It’s  simply  awful!  ” 

“  I  don’t  mind  much  if  they  do  know.” 

“  But  my  reminiscences,  Maude!  The  travels 
in  the  Tyrol!  The  Swiss  hotel!  The  stateroom! 
Great  goodness!  how  I  have  put  my  foot  into  it!  ” 
Maude  burst  out  laughing. 

“  You  old  dear!  ”  she  cried.  “  I  don’t  believe 
you  are  a  bit  better  as  a  conspirator  than  I  am. 
There’s  only  one  thing  you  can  do.  Give  the 
waiter  half  a  crown,  tell  him  the  truth,  and  don’t 
conspire  any  more.” 

And  so  ignominiously  ended  the  attempt  which 
so  many  have  made,  and  at  which  so  many  have 
failed.  Take  warning,  gentle  reader,  and  you  also, 
gentler  reader  still,  when  your  own  turn  comes. 


4 


VIII. 


THE  HOME-COMING. 

The  days  of  holiday  were  over,  and  for  each 
of  them  the  duties  of  life  were  waiting.  For  him 
it  was  his  work,  and  for  her  her  housekeeping. 
They  both  welcomed  the  change,  for  there  was  a 
rush  and  a  want  of  privacy  about  the  hotel  life 
which  had  been  amusing  at  first,  but  was  now  be¬ 
coming  irksome.  It  was  pleasant  as  they  rolled  out 
of  Waterloo  station  that  summer  night  to  know 
that  their  cosey  little  home  was  awaiting  them  just 
five-and-twenty  miles  down  the  line.  They  had  a 
first-class  carriage  to  themselves — it  is  astonishing 
how  easy  it  is  for  two  people  to  fit  into  one  of  those 
armchair  partitions — and  they  talked  all  the  way 
down  about  their  plans  for  the  future.  Golden 
visions  of  youth,  how  they  can  glorify  even  a 
suburban  villa  and  four  hundred  a  year!  They  ex¬ 
ulted  together  over  the  endless  vista  of  happy  days 
which  stretched  before  them. 

Mrs.  Watson,  Frank’s  trusty  housekeeper,  had 

101 


102 


A  DUET. 


been  left  in  charge  of  the  Lindens,  and  be  had 
sent  her  a  telegram  the  evening  before  to  tell  her 
that  they  were  coining.  She  had  already  engaged 
the  two  servants,  so  everything  would  be  ready  for 
them.  They  pictured  her  waiting  at  the  door,  the 
neat  little  rooms,  with  all  their  useful  marriage 
presents  in  their  proper  places,  the  lamplight,  and 
the  snowy  cloth  laid  for  supper  in  the  dining  room. 
It  would  be  ten  o’clock  before  they  got  there,  and 
that  supper  would  be  a  welcome  sight.  It  was 
all  delightful  to  look  forward  to,  and  this  last 
journey  was  the  happiest  of  all  their  wander¬ 
ings.  Maude  wanted  to  see  her  kitchen.  Frank 
wanted  to  see  his  books.  Both  were  eager  for  the 
fight. 

But  they  found  a  small  annoyance  waiting  for 
them  at  Woking.  A  crowded  train  had  preceded 
them,  and  there  was  not  a  single  cab  left  at  the 
station.  Some  would  be-  back  soon,  but  nobody 
could  tell  when. 

“You  don’t  mind  walking,  Maude?” 

“  I  should  prefer  it.” 

So  a  friendly  porter  took  charge  of  their  trunks 
and  promised  to  send  them  up  when  a  conveyance 
had  arrived.  In  the  meantime  they  started  off 
together  down  an  ill-lit  and  ill-kept  road  which 
opened  into  that  more  important  thoroughfare  in 


THE  HOME-COMING. 


103 


which  their  own  villa  was  situated.  They  walked 
quickly,  full  of  eager  anticipations. 

“  It’s  just  past  the  third  lamp-post  on  the 
right,”  said  Frank.  “  Now  it’s  only  the  second 
lamp-post.  You  see  it  will  not  be  far  from  the 
station.  Those  windows  among  the  trees  are  where 
Hale  lives — my  best  man,  you  know!  Now  it  is 
only  one  lamp-post!  ”  They  quickened  their  pace 
almost  to  a  run,  and  so  arrived  at  the  gate  of  the 
Lindens. 

It  was  a  white  gate  leading  into  a  short  path — 
“  carriage  sweep,”  the  house  agent  called  it — and 
so  to  a  low  but  comfortable-looking  little  house. 
The  night  was  so  dark  that  one  could  only  see  its 
outline.  To  their  surprise,  there  was  no  sign  of 
a  light  either  above  the  door  or  at  any  of  the 
windows. 

“  Well,  Fm  blessed!  ”  cried  Frank. 

“  Never  mind,  dear.  They  live  at  the  back,  no 
doubt.” 

“  But  I  gave  them  the  hour.  This  is  too  bad. 
I  am  so  sorry!  ” 

“  It  will  be  all  the  more  cosey  inside.  What 
a  dear  little  gate  this  is!  The  whole  place  is  per¬ 
fectly  charming!  ” 

But,  in  spite  of  her  brave  attempts  at  making 
the  best  of  it,  it  could  not  be  denied  that  this  black 


104 


A  DUET. 


house  was  not  what  they  had  pictured  in  their 
dreams.  Frank  strode  angrily  up  the  path  and 
pulled  at  the  bell.  There  was  no  answer,  so  he 
knocked  violently.  Then  he  knocked  with  one 
hand  while  he  rang  with  the  other,  but  no  sound 
save  that  of  the  clanging  bell  came  from  the  gloomy 
house.  As  they  stood  forlornly  in  front  of  their 
own  hall  door,  a  soft  rain  began  to  rustle  amid  the 
bushes.  At  this  climax  of  their  troubles,  Maude 
burst  out  into  such  a  quiet,  hearty,  irresistible  fit 
of  laughter  that  the  angry  Frank  was  forced  to 
laugh  also. 

“  My  word,  it  will  be  no  laughing  matter  for 
Mrs.  Watson  if  she  can  not  give  a  good  reason  for 
it,”  said  he. 

“  Perhaps  the  poor  woman  is  ill.” 

“  But  there  should  be  two  other  people — the 
cook  and  the  housemaid.  It  is  just  as  well  that 
we  did  not  bring  up  our  trunks,  or  we  should  have 
had  to  dump  them  down  in  the  front  garden.  You 
wait  here,  dear,  under  the  shelter  of  the  porch, 
and  I  will  walk  round  and  see  if  I  can  burgle  it.” 

He  tried  the  back,  but  it  was  as  dark  as  the 
front,  and  the  kitchen  door  was  locked.  Then  he 
prowled  unhappily  in  the  rain  from  window  to 
window.  They  were  all  fastened.  He  came  back 
to  the  kitchen  door,  poked  his  stick  through  the 


THE  HOME-COMING. 


105 


glass  which  formed  the  upper  panel,  and  then,  put¬ 
ting  his  hand  through  the  hole,  he  turned  the  key, 
and  so  stumbled  into  the  obscurity  of  his  own  hall, 
lie  passed  through  it,  unlocked  the  front  door,  and 
received  Maude  in  his  open  arms. 

“  Welcome  to  your  home,  my  own  darling 
girl!  May  you  never  have  one  sad  hour  under 
this  roof!  What  a  dismal  home-coming!  What 
can  I  do  to  make  amends?  But  good  comes  out 
of  evil,  you  see,  for  in  no  other  possible  way  could 
I  have  been  inside  to  welcome  you  when  you  en¬ 
tered/’ 

They  stayed  in  the  hall  in  the  dark  some  time, 
these  wet  and  foolish  young  people.  Then  Frank 
struck  a  match  and  tried  to  light  the  hall  lamp. 
There  was  no  oil  in  it.  He  muttered  something 
vigorous,  and  carried  his  burning  vesta  into  the 
dining  room.  -  Two  candles  were  standing  on  the 
sideboard.  He  lit  them  both,  and  things  began 
to  look  a  little  more  cheerful.  They  took  a  candle 
each  and  began  to  explore  their  own  deserted 
house. 

The  dining  room  was  excellent,  small  but  very 

snug.  The  Tantalus  spirit  stand — empty,  alas!— - 

stood  upon  the  walnut  sideboard,  and  the  bronzes 

from  the  cricket  club  looked  splendid  upon  each 

cide  of  the  mantelpiece.  Beside  the  clqck  in  the 
8 

{ 


106 


A  DUET. 


centre  lay  an  open  telegram.  Frank  seized  it 
eagerly. 

u  There,  now!  ”  he  cried.  “  Listen  to  this. 
‘  Expect  us  on  Thursday  evening,  about  tend  It 
was  Tuesday  evening,  I  said.  That’s  the  tele¬ 
graphic  clerk.  We’ve  come  two  days  before  our 
time.” 

It  was  good  to  have  any  sort  of  explanation, 
although  it  left  a  good  deal  unexplained.  They 
passed  through  the  hall  with  its  shining  linoleum 
and  into  the  drawing-room.  It  was  not  a  very 
good  room,  too  square  for  elegance,  but  they  were 
in  no  humour  for  criticism,  and  it  was  charming 
to  see  all  the  old  knickknacks  and  the  photographs 
of  friends  in  their  frames.  A  big  wrought-iron 
and  brasswork  standing  lamp  towered  up  near  the 
fireplace,  but  again  there  was  no  oil. 

“  I  think  that  Mrs.  Watson  has  arranged  it  all 
splendidly,”  said  Maude,  whose  active  fingers  were 
already  beginning  to  reconstruct.  “  But  where 
can  she  be?  ” 

“  She  must  be  out,  for,  of  course,  she  lives  in 
the  house.  But  it  is  the  absence  of  the  servants 
which  amazes  me,  for  I  understood  that  they  had 
arrived.  What  would  you  like  to  do?  ” 

“  Aren’t  you  hungry,  Frank?  ” 

“  Simply  starving.” 


THE  HOME-COMING. 


107 


“  So  am  I  ” 

“  Well,  then,  let  us  forage  and  see  if  we  can 
not  find  something  to"  eat.7’ 

So  hand  in  hand,  and  each  with  a  candle  in  the 
other  hand,  like  a  pair  of  young  penitents,  they 
continued  their  explorations  with  more  purpose 
than  before.  The  kitchen  into  which  they  pene¬ 
trated  had  clearly  been  much  used  of  late,  for  there 
were  dirty  dishes  scattered  about,  and  the  fire  had 
been  lighted,  though  it  was  now  out.  In  one  cor¬ 
ner  lay  what  seemed  to  be  a. pile  of  drab-coloured 
curtains.  In  the  other  an  armchair  lay  upon  its 
side  with  legs  projecting.  A  singular  disorder, 
very  alien  to  Mrs.  Watson’s  habits,  pervaded  the 
apartment.  A  dresser  with  a  cupboard  over  it 
claimed  the  first  attention  of  the  hungry  pair. 
With  a  cheer  from  Frank  and  handclapping  from 
Maude,  they  brought  out  a  new  loaf  of  bread,  some 
butter,  some  cheese,  a  tin  of  cocoa,  and  a  bowl  full 
of  eggs.  Maude  tied  an  apron  over  her  pretty 
russet  dress,  seized  some  sticks  and  paper,  and  had 
a  fire  crackling  in  a  very  few  minutes. 

“  Put  some  water  in  the  kettle,  Frank.” 

“  Here  you  are!  Anything  else?  ” 

“  Some  in  the  small  saucepan  for  the  eggs.” 

“  I  believe  they  are  ‘  cookers,’  ”  said  he,  sniff¬ 
ing  at  them  suspiciously. 


108 


A  DUET. 


“  Hold  them  up  to  the  light,  sir.  There !  they 
are  quite  bright  and  nice.  In  with  them!  How, 
if  you  will  cut  some  bread  and  butter,  we  shall 
soon  have  our  supper  ready.” 

u  It’s  too  new  to  cut,”  cried  Frank,  sawing 
away  upon  the  kitchen  table.  “  Besides,  new  bread 
is  better  in  chunks.  Here  are  some  cloths  and 
knives  and  forks  in  the  dresser  drawer.  I  will  go 
and  lay  the  table.” 

“  And  leave  me  here  alone!  Ho,  please, 
Frank,  if  I  am  cook,  you  must  be  scullery  maid. 
Get  the  cups  down  and  put  the  cocoa  in  them. 
What  fun  it  all  is!  I  think  it  is  simply  splendid 
to  be  mistress  of  a  house.” 

“  With  one  scullery  maid.” 

“  And  she  perfectly  incompetent  and  much 
given  to  embracing  her  mistress.  I  must  take  my 
hat  off.  Get  the  sugar  for  the  cocoa  out  of  the 
cupboard.  The  kettle  is  singing,  so  it  won’t  be 
long.  Do  you  know,  Frank — ”  She  paused,  listen¬ 
ing  with  the  egg  saucepan  in  her  hands.  “  There’s 
a  dog  or  something  in  the  room!  ” 

They  had  both  become  aware  of  a  sort  of  sibi¬ 
lant  breathing,  and  they  looked  round  them  in  be¬ 
wilderment. 

"  Where  is  it?  ”  asked  Maude.  "  Frank,  I  be¬ 
lieve  it’s  a  mouse.” 


THE  HOME-COMING. 


109 


“  Hope  for  the  best.  Don’t  frighten  yourself 
unnecessarily.  I  believe  it  comes  from  under  these 
curtains.”  He  approached  them  with  his  candle, 
and  was  suddenly  aware  of  a  boot  which  was  pro¬ 
jecting  from  them.  “  Great  Scott!  ”  he  cried; 
“  there’s  a  woman  here  asleep.” 

Reassured  as  to  the  mouse,  Maude  approached 
with  her  saucepan  still  clutched  in  her  hand. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  either  as  to  the  woman 
or  the  sleep.  She  lay  in  an  untidy  heap,  her  head 
under  the  table,  and  her  figure  sprawling.  She 
appeared  to  be  a  very  large  woman. 

“  Hullo!”  cried  Frank,  shaking  her  by  the 
shoulder.  “  Hullo,  you  there !  ” 

But  the  woman  slumbered  peacefully  on. 
“Heh!  wake  up,  wake  up!”  he  shouted,  and 
pulled  her  up  into  a  sitting  position.  But  she  slept 
as  soundly  sitting  as  lying. 

“  The  poor  thing  must  be  ill,”  said  Maude. 
“  O  Frank!  shall  I  run  for  a  doctor?  ” 

“  Wake  up,  woman,  wake  up!  ”  Frank  yelled, 
and  danced  her  up  and  down.  She  flopped  about 
like  a  sawdust  doll,  with  her  arms  swinging  in  front 
of  her.  He  panted  with  his  exertions,  but  she  was 
serenely  unconscious.  At  last  he  had  to  lower  her 
on  to  the  floor  again,  putting  a  footstool  under 
her  head. 


110 


A  DUET. 


“  It’s  no  go,”  said  lie.  “  I  can  make  nothing 
of  her.  She  will  sleep  it  off.” 

“  You  don’t  mean  to  say,  Frank,  that  she 
is - ” 

“  Indeed,  I  do.” 

“  Plow  horrible!  ” 

“  That  kettle  is  boiling  now.  Suppose  we  have 
our  supper.” 

“  Dear  Frank,  I  could  not  enjoy  my  supper 
with  that  unfortunate  woman  lying  there.  O 
Frank!  I  know  that  you  could  not,  either.” 

“  Bless  her!  ”  said  Frank  bitterly,  as  he  gazed 
at  the  inert  lump.  “  I  really  don’t  see  why  we 
should  put  ourselves  out  for  her.  She  is  quite 
comfortable.” 

“  Oh,  I  couldn’t,  Frank!  It  would  seem  in¬ 
human.” 

“  What  are  we  to  do,  then?  ” 

“  We  must  put  her  to  bed.” 

“  Great  Heavens!  ” 

“  Yes,  dear,  it  is  our  duty  to  put  her  to  bed.” 

“  But,  look  here,  my  dear  girl,  we  must  be 
practical.  The  woman  weighs  half  a  ton,  and  the 
bedrooms  are  at  the  top  of  the  house.  It’s  simply 
impossible.” 

“  Don’t  you  think,  Frank,  that  if  you  took  her 
head  and  I  took  her  feet  we  might  get  her  up?  ” 


THE  HOME-COMING. 


Ill 


a  Not  up  the  stair,  dear.  She  is  enormous.  ” 

“  Well,  then,  on  to  the  drawing-room  sofa.,’’ 
said  Maude.  “  I  could  have  my  supper  if  I  knew 
that  she  was  safe  upon  the  sofa.” 

So  Frank,  seeing  that  there  was  no  help  for 
it,  seized  her  under  the  arms  and  Maude  took  her 
ankles,  and  they  bore  her,  bulging  but  serene,  down 
the  passage.  They  staggered  exhausted  into  the 

i 

drawing-room,  and  the  new  sofa  groaned  beneath 
the  weight.  It  was  a  curious  and  unsavoury  in¬ 
augural  ceremony.  Maude  put  a  rug  over  the  pros¬ 
trate  form,  and  they  returned  to  their  boiling  ket¬ 
tle  and  their  uncooked  eggs.  Then  they  laid  the 
table  and  served  the  supper,  and  enjoyed  this  picnic 
meal  of  their  own  creating  as  no  conventional  meal 
could  ever  have  been  enjoyed.  Everything  seemed 
beautiful  to  the  young  wife — the  wall  paper,  the 
pictures,  the  carpet,  the  rug — but  to  him  she  was 
so  beautiful  in  mind  and  soul  and  body  that  her 
presence  turned  the  little  room  into  an  enchanted 
chamber.  They  sat  long  together,  and  marvelled 
at  their  own  happiness — that  pure,  serene  happi¬ 
ness  of  mere  companionship,  which  is  so  much 
more  intimate  and  deeper  than  all  the  transports 
of  passion. 

But  suddenly  he  sprang  from  his  chair.  There 
was  the  sound  of  steps,  of  several  steps,  outside 


112 


A  DUET. 


upon  the  gravel  path.  Then  a  key  clicked,  and 
a  burst  of  cold  air  told  them  that  the  door  was 
open. 

“  It’s  agin’  the  law  for  me  to  enter,”  said  a 
gruff  voice. 

“  I  tell  you  she’s  very  strong  and  violent,” 
said  a  second  voice,  which  Frank  recognised  as  that 
of  Mrs.  Watson.  “  She  chased  the  maid  out  of  the 
house,  and  I  can  do  nothing  with  her.” 

“  Very  sorry,  mum,  but  it’s  clean  agin’  the 
law  of  England.  Give  me  a  warrant,  and  in  I 
come.  If  you  will  bring  her  to  the  doorstep,  I 
will  be  answerable  for  her  removal.” 

“  She’s  in  the  dining  room.  I  can  see  the 
*  lights,”  said  Mrs.  Watson;  and  then,  “  Good  Lord, 
Mr.  Crosse,  what  a  fright  you  gave  me!  Oh, 
dearie  me,  that  you  should  have  come  when  I  was 
out,  and  I  not  expecting  you  for  another  two  days 
yet!  Well,  now,  I  shall  never  forgive  myself  for 
this.” 

But  all  the  mistakes  and  misfortunes  were  very 
quickly  explained.  The  telegram  was  the  root  of 
the  evil.  And  then  the  new  cook  had  proved  to 
be  a  violent  intermittent  drunkard.  She  had 
chased  the  other  maid  out  of  the  house,  and  then, 
while  Mrs.  Watson  rushed  for  the  police,  she  had 
drunk  herself  into  the  stupor  in  which  she  had 


THE  HOME-COMING. 


113 


been  found.  But  now  in  tlie  nick  of  time  the  sta¬ 
tion  cab  came  up  with  the  luggage,  and  so  the  still 
placidly  slumbering  culprit  was  carried  out  to  it 
and  sent  off  in  the  charge  of  the  policeman.  Such 
was  the  first  entry  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crosse  into  their 
home  at  the  Lindens. 


i 


IX. 

LAYING  A  COURSE. 

Frank  Crosse  was  a  methodical  young  man — 
his  enemies  might  sometimes  have  called  him 
pedantic — and  he  loved  to  reduce  his  life  to  rule 
and  order.  It  was  one  of  his  peculiarities.  But  ' 
how  about  this  new  life  into  which  he  was  enter¬ 
ing?  It  took  two  to  draw  up  the  rules  for  that. 
The  little  two-oared  craft  who  put  out  upon  that 
voyage  have  to  lay  their  own  course  each  for  itself, 
and  all  round  them  as  they  go  they  see  the  floating 
timbers  and  broken  keels  of  other  little  boats  which 
had  once  started  out  full  of  hope  and  confidence. 
There  are  currents  and  eddies,  low  sand  hanks  and 
sunken  reefs,  and  happy  the  crews  who  see  them 
ahead  and  trim  their  course  to  avoid  them.  Frank 
brooded  over  it  all.  He  had  seen  something  of 
life  for  his  years.  He  was  observant  and  reflective. 
He  had  watched  his  friends  who  were  happy,  and 
he  had  watched  his  friends  who  were  not.  And 

now,  as  a  result  of  all  this  wise  cogitation,  he  sat 

114 


LAYING  A  COURSE. 


115 


down  at  tlie  table  one  evening  with  a  solemn  face 
and  a  sheet  of  foolscap. 

“  Now,  Maude,”  said  lie,  “  I  want  to  have  a 
serious  talk.” 

Maude  looked  up  in  surprise  from  1*he  slipper 
which  she  was  embroidering.  f 

“  Oh,  dear!  ”  she  cried. 

“  Why  ‘  Oh,  dear  ’?  ” 

“  There’s  something  wrong?  ” 

“  Nothing  in  the  world.” 

“  You  looked  so  solemn,  Frank.  I  thought  you 
had  been  looking  at  the  tradesmen’s  books.  What 
is  it,  dear?  ” 

“  Well,  Maude,  I  have  been  thinking  of  mar¬ 
ried  life  in  general.  Don’t  you  think  it  would  be 
a  good  thing  if  we  were  to  make  some  resolutions 
as  to  how  it  should  be  conducted — some  funda¬ 
mental  principles,  as  it  were?  ” 

“  Oh,  do,  dear,  do!  What  fun  it  will  be!  ” 

“  But  it’s  serious,  Maude.” 

“  Yes,  dear,  I  am  quite  serious.” 

“  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  we  could  reduce  it 
to  certain  rules  then  whatever  came  upon  us  in 
the  future  we  should  always  know  exactly  how  to 
act.” 

“  What  are  the  rules,  dear?  ” 

“  Well,  we  can  only  arrive  at  them  by  talking 


116 


A  DUET. 


it  over  between  ourselves.  I  could  not  draw  up 
a  set  of  rules  and  ask  you  to  submit  to  them.  That 
is  not  my  idea  of  a  partnership.  But  if  we  found 
that  we  were  agreed  upon  certain  points,  then  we 
could  both  adopt  them  by  mutual  consent.” 

“  ITow  charming,  Frank!  Do  please  tell  me 
some  of  the  points.” 

“  I  have  a  few  in  my  mind,  and  I  should  like 
to  hear  any  which  you  may  have — any  ideas,  you 
know,  how  to  get  the  very  highest  and  best  out 
of  our  life.  Now,  first  of  all,  there  is  the  subject 
of  quarrelling.” 

“  O  Frank!  how  horrid!  ” 

“  Dear  girl,  we  must  look  into  the  future.  We 
are  going  to  live  all  our  lives  together.  We  must 
foresee  and  prepare  for  all  the  chances  of  life.” 

“  But  that  is  absurd.” 

“  You  can’t  live  all  your  life  and  never  be  in 
a  bad  temper.” 

“  But  not  with  you ,  Frank.” 

“  Oh,  I  can  be  very  aggravating  sometimes. 
Now,  my  idea  is  this:  Ill-liumour  passes,  and  hurts 
nobody.  But  if  two  people  are  ill-humoured,  then 
each  excites  the  other,  and  they  say  ever  so  much 
more  than  they  mean.  Let  us  make  a  compact 
never  both  to  be  ill-humoured  at  the  same  time. 
If  you  are  cross,  then  it  is  your  turn,  and  I  stand 


LAYING  A  COURSE. 


117 


clear.  If  /  am  cross,  you  let  me  work  it  off.  Wlien 
either  hoists  the  danger  signal,  the  other  is  on 
guard.  What  do  you  think  of  that?  ” 

“  I  think  you  are  the  funniest  old  boy.” 

“  Do  you  agree?” 

“  Yes,  dear,  of  course  I  agree.” 

“  Article  No.  1,”  said  Frank,  and  scribbled 
upon  his  paper. 

“  Your  turn,  now.” 

“  No,  dear,  I  have  not  thought  of  anything.” 

“  Well,  then,  here  is  another  point.  Never 
take  each  other  for  granted.” 

“  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  ” 

“  Never  relax  those  attentions  which  one  lover 
shows  to  another.  Some  husbands  seem  to  forget 
that  their  wives  are  ladies.  Some  wives  speak  to 
their  husbands  with  less  courtesy  and  consideration 
than  to  any  casual  male  visitor.  They  mean  no 
harm,  but  they  get  into  a  slack  way.  We  must  not 
do  that.” 

“  I  don’t  think  we  are  likely  to.” 

“  People  get  into  it  unconsciously.  Pull  me  up 
sharply  at  the  first  sign.” 

“  Yes,  sir,  I  will.” 

“  The  next  point  that  I  have  noted  is  an  ex¬ 
tension  of  the  last.  Let  each  strive  to  be  worthy 
of  the  love  of  the  other.  People  get  slovenly  and 


118 


A  DUET. 


slipshoddy,  as  if  it  didn’t  matter  now  that  they 
were  married.  If  each  were  very  keen  to  please 
the  other,  that  would  not  he  so.  How  many  women 
neglect  their  music  after  marriage!  ” 

“  My  goodness,  I  haven’t  practised  for  a 
week!  ”  cried  Maude. 

“  And  their  dress  and  their  hair — ”  Maude’s 
hand  flew  up  to  her  curls.  “  My  darling,  yours  is 
just  perfect.  But  you  know  how  often  a  woman 
grows  careless.  ‘  He  will  love  me,  anyhow,’  she 
says  to  herself;  and  perhaps  she  is  right,  but  still 
it  is  not  as  it  should  be.” 

“  Why,  Frank,  I  had  no  idea  you  knew  so 
much !  ” 

“  I  have  heard  my  friends’  experiences.  And 
the  man,  too!  Fie  should  consider  his  wife’s  feel¬ 
ings  as  much  as  he  did  his  sweetheart’s.  If  she 
dislikes  smoke,  he  should  not  smoke.  He  should 
not  yawn  in  her  presence.  He  should  keep  him¬ 
self  well  groomed  and  attractive.  Look  at  that 
dirty  cuff!  I  have  no  business  to  have  it.” 

“  As  if  it  could  make  any  difference  to  me.” 

“  There,  now!  That  is  what  is  so  demoralizing. 
You  should  stand  out  for  the  highest.  When  I 
came  to  you  at  St.  Albans  I  had  not  dirty  cuffs.” 

“  You  forgive  me  the  music,  Frank,  and  I’ll 
forgive  you  the  cuff.  But  I  agree  to  all  you  say. 


LAYING  A  COURSE. 


119 


I  think  it  is  so  wise  and  good.  Now,  I’ve  got 
something  to  say.” 

“  Good!  What  is  it?” 

“  Each  should  take  an  interest  in  the  other’s 
department.” 

“  Why,  of  course,  they  should.” 

“  But  it  is  not  done.” 

“  Why,  naturally,  dear,  you  take  an  interest  in 
my  city  work.” 

a  Yes,  sir;  but  do  you  take  as  keen  an  inter¬ 
est  in  my  housekeeping?” 

“  Perhaps  I  have  been  a  little  thoughtless.  ”i 

“  No,  no,  dear,  you  haven’t.  You  are  always 
full  of  consideration.  But  I  have  noticed  it  with 
mother,  and  with  others  also.  The  husband  pulk 
out  his  cheque-book  at  the  end  of  the  week  or 
month,  and  he  says,  6  Well,  this  is  rather  more 
than  we  can  afford,’  or,  ‘  This  is  less  than  I  ex¬ 
pected,’  but  he  never  really  takes  any  interest  in 
his  wife’s  efforts  to  keep  things  nice  on  a  little. 
He  does  not  see  it  with  her  eyes,  and  try  to  realize 
her  difficulties.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  express  my¬ 
self  better,  hut  I  know  that  the  interest  is  one¬ 
sided.” 

“  I  think  what  you  say  is  quite  right.  I’ll  try 
to  remember  that.  How  shall  we  enter  it  upon  our 
list?” 


120 


A  DUET. 


“  That  interests  should  be  mutual.” 

“  Quite  right.  I  have  it  down.  Well,  any¬ 
more  points?  ” 

“  It  is  your  turn.” 

“  Well,  there  is  this,  and  I  feel  that  it  is  just 
the  holiest  thing  in  matrimony  and  its  greatest 
justification — that  love  should  never  degenerate 
into  softness,  that  each  should  consciously  stimu¬ 
late  the  better  part  of  the  other  and  discourage  the 
worse,  that  there  should  be  a  discipline  in  our  life, 
and  that  we  should  brace  each  other  up  to  a  higher 
ideal.  The  love  that  says,  ‘  I  know  it  is  wrong,  but 
I  love  him  or  her  so  much  that  I  can’t  refuse/  is 
a  poor  sort  of  love  for  the  permanent  use  of  mar¬ 
ried  life.  The  self-respect  which  refuses  to  let  the 
most  lofty  ideal  of  love  down  by  an  inch  is  a  far 
nobler  thing,  and  it  wears  better,  too.” 

“  How  will  you  express  all  that?  ” 

“  Mutual  respect  is  necessary  for  mutual  love.” 

“  Yes,  I  am  sure  that  that  is  right.” 

“  It  sounds  obvious,  but  the  very  intensity  of 
love  makes  love  soft  and  blind.  How,  I  have  an¬ 
other  which  I  am  convinced  that  you  will  not  agree 
with.” 

“  Let  me  hear  it.” 

“  I  have  put  it  in  this  way:  ‘  The  tight  cord  is 
the  easiest  to  snap.’  ” 


LAYING  A  COURSE. 


121 


“  What  do  you  mean?  ” 

“  Well,  I  mean  that  married  couples  should 
give  each  other  a  certain  latitude  and  freedom.  If 
they  don’t,  one  or  other  will  sooner  or  later  chafe 
at  the  restriction.  It  is  only  human  nature,  which 
is  an  older  and  more  venerable  thing  than  mar¬ 
riage.” 

“  I  don’t  like  that  at  all,  Frank.” 

“  I  feared  you  wouldn’t,  dear,  but  I  believe 
you’ll  see  it  with  me  when  I  explain  what  I  mean. 
If  you  don’t,  then  I  must  try  to  see  it  with  you. 
When  one  talks  of  freedom  in  married  life,  it 
means,  as  a  rule,  freedom  only  for  the  man.  He 
does  what  he  likes,  but  still  claims  to  be  a  strict 
critic  of  his  wife.  That,  I  am  sure,  is  wrong.  To 
take  an  obvious  example  of  what  I  mean,  has  a 
husband  a  right  to  read  his  wife’s  letters?  Cer¬ 
tainly  not,  any  more  than  she  has  a  right  to  read 
his  without  his  permission.  To  read  them  as  a  mat¬ 
ter  of  course  would  be  stretching  the  chain  too 
tight.” 

“  Chain  is  a  horrid  word,  Frank.” 

“  Well,  it’s  only  a  metaphor.  Or  take  the  sub¬ 
ject  of  friendships.  Is  a  married  man  to  be  de¬ 
barred  from  all  friendship  and  intimacy  with  an¬ 
other  woman?  ” 

Maude  looked  doubtful. 

9 


122 


A  DUET. 


“  I  should  like  to  see  the  woman  first,”  she 
said. 

“  Or  is  a  married  woman  to  form  no  friend¬ 
ship  with  another  man  who  might  interest  or  im¬ 
prove  her?  There  is  such  a  want  of  mutual  con¬ 
fidence  in  such  a  view!  People  who  are  sure  of 
each  other  should  give  each  other  every  freedom 
in  that.  If  they  don’t,  they  are  again  stretching 
it  tight.” 

“  If  they  do,  it  may  become  so  slack  that  it 
might  as  well  not  be  there  at  all.” 

“  I  felt  sure  that  we  should  have  an  argument 
over  this.  But  I  have  seen  examples.  Look  at 
the  AYardrops!  There  was  a  couple  who  were  never 
apart.  It  was  their  boast  that  everything  was  in 
common  with  them.  If  he  was  not  in,  she  opened 
his  letters  and  he  hers.  And  then  there  came  a 
most  almighty  smash.  The  tight  cord  had  snapped. 
How,  I  believe  that  for  some  people  it  is  a  most 
excellent  thing  that  they  should  take  their  holi¬ 
days  at  different  times.” 

“  O  Frank!  ” 

“  Yes,  I  do.  Ho,  not  for  us,  by  Jove!  I  am 
generalizing  now.  But  for  some  couples  I  am 
sure  that  it  is  right.  They  reconsider  each  other 
from  a  distance,  and  they  like  each  other  the 
better.” 


LAYING  A  COURSE. 


123 


“  Yes,  blit  these  rules  are  for  lour  guidance, 
not  for  that  of  other  people.” 

» 

“  Quite  right,  dear.  I  was  off  the  rails.  ‘  As 
you  were/  as  your  brother  Jack  would  say.  But 
I  am  afraid  that  I  am  not  going  to  convince  you 
over  this  point.” 

Maude  dooked  charmingly  mutinous. 

“  No,  Frank,  you  are  not.  I  don’t  think  mar¬ 
riage  can  be  too  close.  I  believe  that  every  hope 
and  thought  and  aspiration  should  be  in  common. 
I  could  never  get  as  near  to  your  heart  and  soul 
as  I  should  wish  to  do.  I  want  every  year  to  draw 
me  closer  and  closer,  until  we  really  are  as  near¬ 
ly  the  same  person  as  it  is  possible  to  be  upon 
earth.” 

When  you  have  to  surrender,  it  is  well  to  do 
so  gracefully.  Frank  knelt  down  and  kissed  his 
wife’s  hand  and  apologized.  “  The  wisdom  of  the 
heart  is  greater  than  the  wisdom  of  the  brain,” 
said  he.  But  the  love  of  man  comes  from  the  brain 
far  more  than  the  love  of  woman,  and  so  it  is  that 
there  will  always  be  some  points  upon  which  they 
will  never  quite  see  alike. 

“  Then  we  scratch  out  that  item.” 

“  No,  dear.  Put  (  the  cord  which  is  held  tight 
is  the  easiest  to  snap.7  That  will  be  all  right.  The 
cord  of  which  I  speak  is  never  held  at  all.  The 


124 


A  DUET. 


moment  it  is  necessary  to  hold  it,  it  is  of  no  value. 
It  must  be  voluntary,  natural,  unavoidable.” 

So  Frank  amended  his  aphorism. 

“  Anything  more,  dear?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  have  thought  of  one  other,”  said  she. 
u  It  is  that  if  ever  you  had  to  find  fault  with  me 
about  anything  it  should  be  when  we  are  alone.” 

“  And  the  same  in  your  case  with  me.  That 
is  excellent.  What  can  be  more  vulgar  and  de¬ 
grading  than  a  public  difference  of  opinion?  Peo¬ 
ple  do  it  half  in  fun  sometimes,  but  it  is  all  wrong 
all  the  same.  Duly  entered  upon  the  minutes. 
Anything  else?  ” 

“  Only  material  things.” 

“  Yes,  but  they  count  also.  Now,  in  the  mat¬ 
ter  of  money,  I  feel  that  every  husband  should 
allow  his  wife  a  yearly  sum  of  her  own,  to  be  paid 
over  to  her  and  kept  by  her,  so  that  she  may  make 
her  own  arrangements  for  herself.  It  is  degrad¬ 
ing  to  a  woman  to  have  to  apply  to  her  husband 
every  time  she  wants  a  sovereign.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  the  wife  has  any  money,  she  should  have 
the  spending  of  it.  If  she  chooses  to  spend  part 
of  it  in  helping  the  establishment,  that  is  all  right, 
but  I  am  sure  that  she  should  have  her  own  sepa¬ 
rate  account  and  her  own  control  of  it.” 

“  If  a  woman  really  loves  a  man,  Frank,  how 


LAYING  A  COURSE. 


125 


can  slie  grudge  him  everything  she  has?  If  my 
little  income  would  take  one  worry  from  your 
mind,  what  a  joy  it  would  be  to  me  to  feel  that 
you  were  using  it!  ” 

“  Yes,  but  the  man  has  his  self-respect  to  think 
of.  In  a  great  crisis  one  might  fall  back  upon  one’s 
wife — since-  our  interests  are  the  same — but  only 
that  could  justify  it.  So  much  for  the  wife’s 
money.  How  for  the  question  of  housekeeping.” 

“  That  terrible  question!  ” 

“It  is  only  hard  because  people  try  to  do  so 
much  upon  a  little.  Why  should  they  try  to  do 
so  much?  The  best  pleasures  of  life  are  absolutely 
inexpensive.  Books,  music,  pleasant  intimate  even¬ 
ings,  the  walk  among  the  heather,  the  delightful 
routine  of  domestic  life,  my  cricket  and  my  golf — 
these  things  cost  very  little.” 

“  But  you  must  eat  and  drink,  Frank.  And 
as  to  Jemima  and  the  cook,  it  is  really  extraordi¬ 
nary  the  amount  which  they  consume.” 

“  But  the  tendency  is  for  meals  to  become 
much  too  elaborate.  Why  that  second  vegetable?  ” 

“  There,  now !  I  knew  that  you  were  going 
to  say  something  against  that  poor  vegetable.  It 
costs  so  little!  ” 

“  On  an  average,  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  costs 
threepence  a  day.  Come,  now,  confess  that  it  does. 


126 


A  DUET. 


Do  you  know  wliat  threepence  a  day  comes  to  in 
a  year?  There  is  no  use  in  having  an  accountant 
for  a  husband  if  you  can’t  get  at  figures  easily.  It 
is  four  pounds  eleven  shillings  and  threepence.” 

“  It  does  not  seem  very  much.” 

“  But  for  that  money  and  less  one  could  be¬ 
come  a  member  of  the  London  Library,  with  the 
right  to  take  out  fifteen  books  at  a  time  and  all 
the  world’s  literature  to  draw  from.  Now  just 
picture  it — on  one  side  all  the  books  in  the  world, 
all  the  words  of  the  wise  and  great  and  witty;  on 
the  other  side,  a  lot  of  cauliflowers  and  vegetable 
marrows  and  French  beans.  Which  is  the  better 
bargain?  ” 

“  Good  gracious,  we  shall  never  have  a  second 
vegetable  again!  ” 

“  And  pudding?  ” 

“  My  dear,  you  always  eat  the  pudding.” 

“  I  know  I  do.  It  seems  an  obvious  thing  to 
do  when  the  pudding  is  there  in  front  of  me.  But 
if  it  was  not  there  I  should  neither  eat  it  nor  miss 
it,  and  I  know  that  you  care  nothing  about  it. 
There  would  be  another  five  or  six  pounds  a  year.” 

“  We’ll  have  a  compromise,  dear.  Second 
vegetable  one  day,  pudding  the  next.” 

“  Very  good.” 

“  I  notice  that  it  is  always  after  you  have  had 


LAYING  A  COURSE. 


127 


a  substantial  meal  that  you  discuss  economy  in 
food.  I  wonder  if  you  will  feel  the  same  when 
you  come  back  starving  from  the  city  to-morrow. 
Now,  sir,  any  other  economy?  ” 

“  I  don’t  think  money  causes  happiness.  But 
debt  causes  unhappiness.  And  so  we  must  cut 
down  every  expense  until  we  have  a  reserve  fund 
to  meet  any  unexpected  call.  If  you  see  any  way 
in  which  I  could  save,  or  any  money  I  spend  which 
you  think  is  unjustifiable,  I  do  wish  that  you  would 
tell  me.  I  got  into  careless  ways  in  my  bachelor 
days.” 

“  That  red  golfing  coat.” 

“  I  know,  ^t  was  idiotic  of  me.” 

“  Never  mind,  dear.  You  look  very  nice  in  it. 
After  all,  it  was  only  thirty  shillings.  Can  you 
show  me  any  extravagance  of  mine?  ” 

“  Well,  dear,  I  looked  at  that  dressmaker’s  bill 
yesterday - ” 

“  O  Frank!  it  is  such  a  pretty  dress,  and  you 
said  you  liked  it,  and  you  have  to  pay  for  a  good 
cut,  and  you  said  yourself  that  a  wife  must  not 
become  dowdy  after  marriage,  and  it  would  have 
cost  double  as  much  in  Regent  Street.” 

“  I  didn’t  think  the  dress  dear.” 

“  What  was  it,  then?  ” 

“  The  silk  lining  of  the  skirt.” 


128 


A  DUET. 


“  You  funny  boy!  ” 

“  It  cost  thirty  shillings  extra.  How,  what  can 
it  matter  if  it  is  lined  with  silk  or  not?  ” 

“  Oh,  doesn’t  it?  Just  you  try  one  and 
see.” 

“  But  no  one  can  know  that  it  is  lined  with 
silk.” 

a  When  I  rustle  into  a  room,  dear,  every 
woman  in  it  knows  that  my  skirt  is  lined  with 
silk.” 

Frank  felt  that  he  had  ventured  out  of  his 
depth,  so  he  struck  out  for  land  again. 

“  There’s  only  one  economy  which  I  don’t 
think  is  justifiable,”  said  he,  u  and  that  is  to  cut 
down  your  subscriptions  to  charities.  It  is  such 
a  very  cheap  way  of  doing  things!  Hot  that  I 
do  much  in  that  line — too  little,  perhaps.  But 
to  say  that  because  we  want  to  economize  there¬ 
fore  some  poor  people  are  to  suffer  is  a  very 
poor  argument.  We  must  save  at  our  own  ex¬ 
pense.” 

So  now  Frank,  in  his  methodical  fashion,  had 
all  his  results  tabulated  upon  his  sheet  of  foolscap. 
It  was  not  a  very  brilliant  production,  but  it  might 
serve  as  a  chart  for  the  little  two-oared  boats 
until  a  better  one  is  forthcoming.  It  ran  in  this 
way : 


LAYING  A  COURSE. 


129 


Maxims  for  the  Married. 

1.  Since  you  are  married,  you  may  as  well 
make  the  best  of  it. 

2.  So  make  some  maxims  and  try  to  live  up  to 
them. 

3.  And  don’t  be  discouraged  if  you  fail.  You 
will  fail,  but  perhaps  you  won’t  always  fail. 

4.  Never  both  be  cross  at  the  same  time.  Wait 
your  turn. 

5.  Never  cease  to  be  lovers.  If  you  cease, 
some  one  else  may  begin. 

6.  You  were  gentleman  and  lady  before  you 
were  husband  and  wife.  Don’t  forget  it. 

7.  Keep  yourself  at  your  best.  It  is  a  com¬ 
pliment  to  your  partner. 

8.  Keep  your  ideal  high.  You  may  miss  it, 
but  it  is  better  to  miss  a  high  one  than  to  hit  a 
low  one. 

9.  A  blind  love  is  a  foolish  love.  Encourage 
the  best. 

10.  Permanent  mutual  respect  is  necessary  for 
a  permanent  mutual  love. 

11.  The  tight  cord  is  the  easiest  to  snap. 

12.  If  you  take  liberties,  be  prepared  to  give 
them. 

13.  There  is  only  one  thing  worse  than  quar¬ 
rels  in  public.  That  is  caresses. 


130 


A  DUET. 


14.  Money  is  not  essential  to  happiness,  but 
happy  people  usually  have  enough. 

15.  So  save  some. 

16.  The  easiest  way  of  saving  is  to  do  without 
things. 

17.  If  you  can’t,  then  you  had  better  do  with¬ 
out  a  wife. 

18.  The  man  who  respects  his  wife  does  not 
turn  her  into  a  mendicant.  Give  her  a  purse  of 
her  own. 

19.  If  you  save,  save  at  your  own  expense. 

20.  In  all  matters  of  money  prepare  always  for 
the  worst  and  hope  for  the  best. 

Such  was  their  course  as  far  as  this  ambitious 
young  couple  could  lay  it.  They  may  correct  it 
by  experience  and  improve  it  by  use,  but  it  is  good 
enough  to  guide  them  safely  out  to  sea. 


X. 


CONFESSIONS. 

“  Tell  me,  Frank,  did  you  ever  love  any  one 
before  me?  ” 

“  How  badly  trimmed  the  lamp  is  to-nigbt!  ” 
said  be.  It  was  so  bad  that  he  went  otf  instantly 
into  the  dining  room  to  get  another.  It  was  some 
time  before  he  returned. 

She  waited  inexorably  until  he  had  got  settled 
down  again. 

“  Did  vou,  Frank?  ”  she  asked. 

“  Did  I  what?  ” 

“  Ever  love  any  one  else?” 

“  My  dear  Maude,  what  is  the  use  of  asking 
questions  like  that?  ” 

“  You  said  that  there  were  no  secrets  between 
us.” 

“  No,  but  there  are  some  things  better  left 
alone.” 

u  That  is  what  I  should  call  a  secret.” 

“  Of  course,  if  you  make  a  point  of  it - ” 

131 


132 


A  DUET. 


“  I  do.” 

“  Well,  then,  I  am  ready  to  answer  anything 
that  you  ask.  But  you  must  not  blame  me  if  you 
do  not  like  my  answers.” 

“  Who  was  she,  Frank?  ” 

“  Which?  ” 

“  O  Frank!  more  than  one?  ” 

“  I  told  you  that  you  would  not  like  it.” 

“  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  not  asked  you!  ” 

“  Then  do  let  us  drop  it.” 

“  No,  I  can’t  drop  it  now.  Frank,  you  have 
gone  too  far.  You  must  tell  me  everything.” 

“  Everything?  ” 

“  Yes,  everything,  Frank.” 

“  I  am  not  sure  that  I  can.” 

“  Is  it  so  dreadful  as  that?  ” 

“  Yo,  there  is  another  reason.” 

“  Do  tell  me,  Frank.” 

“  There  is  a  good  deal  of  it.  You  know  how 
a  modern  poet  excused  himself  to  his  wife  for  all 
his  prematrimonial  experiences.  He  said  he  was 
looking  for  her.” 

“Well,  I  do  like  that!  ”  she  cried. 

“  I  was  looking  for  you.” 

“  You  seem  to  have  looked  a  good  deal,”  said 

she. 


“  But  I  found  you  at  last.” 


CONFESSIONS. 


133 


“  I  had  rather  you  had  found  me  at  first, 
Frank.” 

He  said  something  about  supper,  hut  she  was 
not  to  be  turned. 

“  How  many  did  you  really  love?  ”  she  asked. 
“  Please  don’t  joke  about  it,  Frank.  I  really  want 
to  know.” 

“  If  I  chose  to  tell  you  a  lie - ” 

“  But  you  won’t!  ” 

“  Ho,  I  won’t.  I  could  never  feel  the  same 
again.” 

“  Well,  then,  how  many  did  you  love?  ” 

“  Don’t  exaggerate  what  I  say,  Maude,  or  take 
it  to  heart.  You  see,  it  all  depends  upon  what 
you  mean  by  love.  There  are  all  sorts  and  degrees 
of  love,  some  just  the  whim  of  a  moment,  and 
others  the  passion  of  a  lifetime.  Some  are  founded 
on  mere  physical  passion,  and  some  on  intellectual 
sympathy,  and  some  on  spiritual  affinity.” 

“  Which  do  you  love  me  with?  ” 

“  All  three.” 

“  Sure?” 

“  Perfectly  sure.” 

She  came  over  and  the  cross-examination  was 
interrupted.  But  in  a  few  minutes  she  had  settled 
down  to  it  again. 

“  Well,  now,  the  first?  ”  said  she. 


134 


A  DUET. 


“  Oh,  I  can’t,  Maude!  Don’t!  ” 

“  Come,  sir;  her  name?” 

“  No,  no,  Maude;  that  is  going  a  little  too  far. 
Even  to  you  I  would  never  mention  another 
woman’s  name.”  * 

“  Who  was  she,  then?  ” 

“  Please  don’t  let  us  go  into  details.  It  is  per¬ 
fectly  horrible!  Let  me  tell  things  in  my  own 
way.” 

She  made  a  little  grimace. 

“  You  are  wriggling,  sir.  But  I  won’t  be  hard 
upon  you.  Tell  it  your  own  way.” 

“  Well,  in  a  word,  Maude,  I  was  always  in  love 
with  some  one.” 

Her  face  clouded  over. 

“  Your  love  must  be  very  cheap,”  said  she. 

“  It’s  almost  a  necessity  of  existence  for  a 
healthy  young  man  who  has  imagination  and  a 
warm  heart.  It  was  all — or  nearly  all — quite 
superficial.” 

“  I  should  think  all  your  love  was  superficial 
if  it  can  come  so  easily.” 

“  Don’t  be  cross,  Maude.  I  had  never  seen 
you  at  the  time.  I  owed  no  duty  to  you.” 

“  You  owed  a  duty  to  your  own  self-re¬ 
spect.” 

“  There,  I  knew  we  should  have  trouble  over 


CONFESSIONS. 


135 


it!  What  do  you  want  to  ask  such  questions  for? 
I  dare  say  I  am  a  fool  to  be  so  frank.” 

She  sat  for  a  little  with  her  face  quite  cold 
and  set.  In  his  inmost  heart  Frank  was  glad  that 
she  should  be  jealous,  and  he  watched  her  out  of 
the  corner  of  his  eye. 

“  Well!  ”  said  she  at  last. 

“  Must  I  go  on?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  may  as  well  hear  it.” 

“  You’ll  only  be  cross.” 

“  We’ve  gone  too  far  to  stop.  And  Fm  not 
cross,  Frank.  Only  pained  a  little.  But  I  do  ap¬ 
preciate  your  frankness.  I  had  no  idea  you  were 
such  a — such  a  Mormon.”  She  began  to  laugh. 

“  I  used  to  take  an  interest  in  every  woman.” 

“  c  Take  an  interest  ’  is  good.” 

“  That  was  how  it  began.  And  then,  if  cir¬ 
cumstances  were  favourable,  the  interest  deepened 
until  at  last  naturally — well,  you  can  understand.” 

“  How  many  did  you  take  an  interest  in?  ” 

“  Well,  -in  pretty  nearly  all  of  them.” 

“  And  how  many  deepened  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  I  don’t  know.” 

“  Twenty?  ” 

“  Well — rather  more  than  that,  I  think.” 

“  Thirty?” 

“  Quite  thirty.” 


136 


A  DUET. 


“  Forty? ” 

“  Not  more  than  forty,  I  think.” 

Maude  sat  aghast  at  the  depths  of  his  depravity. 

“  Let  me  see,  you  are  twenty-seven  now,  so  you 
have  loved  four  women  a  year  since  you  were  sev¬ 
enteen.” 

“  If  you  reckon  it  that  way,”  said  Frank,  “  I 
am  afraid  that  it  must  have  been  more  than  forty.” 
It’s  dreadful!  ”  said  Maude,  and  began  to 


u 


Frank  knelt  down  in  front  of  her  and  kissed 
her  hands.  She  had  sweet  little  plump  hands,  very 
soft  and  velvety. 

“  You  make  me  feel  such  a  brute,”  said  he. 
“  Anyhow,  I  love  you  now  with  all  my  heart  and 
mind  and  soul.” 

a  Forty-firstly  and  lastly,”  she  sobbed,  half 
laughing  and  half  crying.  Then  she  pulled  his 
hair  to  reassure  him. 

“  I  can’t  be  angry  with  you,”  said  she.  “  Be¬ 
sides,  it  would  be  ungenerous  to  be  angry  when 
you  tell  me  things  of  your  own  free  will.  You 
are  not  forced  to  tell  me.  It  is  very  honourable 
of  you.  But  I  do  wish  you  had  taken  an  interest 
-in  me  first.” 

“  Well,  it  was  not  so  fated.  I  suppose  there 
are  some  men  who  are  quite  good  when  they  are 


CONFESSIONS. 


137 


bachelors.  But  I  don’t  believe  they  are  the  best 
men.  They  are  either  archangels  upon  earth — 
young  Gladstones  and  Newmans — or  else  they  are 
cold,  calculating,  timid,  unvirile  creatures,  who 
will  never  do  any  good.  The  first  class  must  be 
splendid.  I  never  met  one  except  in  memoirs.  The 
others  I  don’t  want  to  meet.” 

Women  are  not  interested  in  generalities. 

“  Were  they  nicer  than  me?  ”  she  asked. 

“  Who?” 

“  Those  forty  women.” 

“  No,  dear,  of  course  not.  Why  are  you  laugh¬ 
ing?  ” 

“  Well,  it  came  into  my  head  how  funny  it 
would  be  if  the  forty  were  all  gathered  into  one 
room  and  you  were  turned  loose  in  the  middle 
of  them.” 

“  Funny!  ”  Frank  ejaculated.  Women  have 
such  extraordinary  ideas  of  humour.  Maude 
laughed  until  she  was  quite  tired. 

“  It  doesn’t  strike  you  as  comic!  ”  she  cried  at 

last. 

“  No,  it  doesn’t,”  he  answered  coldly. 

“  Of  course  it  wouldn’t,”  said  she,  and  went 
off  into  another  ripple  of  pretty  contralto  laughter. 
There  is  a  soft,  deep,  rich  laugh  that  some  women 

have  that  is  the  sweetest  sound  in  Nature. 

10 


138 


A  DUET. 


u  When  you  have  quite  finished — ”  said  he. 
Her  jealousy  was  much  more  complimentary  than 
her  ridicule. 

“  All  right  now.  Don’t  be  cross.  If  I  didn’t 
laugh  I  should  cry.  I’m  so  sorry  if  I  have  an¬ 
noyed  you.”  He  had  gone  back  to  his  chair,  so 
she  paid  him  a  flying  visit.  “  Satisfied?  ” 

“  Not  quite.” 

“  How?” 

“  All  right.  I  forgive  you.” 

“  That’s  funny,  too.  Fancy  you  forgiving  me 
after  all  these  confessions!  But  you  never  loved 
one  of  them  all  as  you  love  me?  ” 

“  Never.” 

“  Swear  it!” 

“  I  do  swear  it.” 

“  Morally,  and  what  do  you  call  it  and  the 
other?  ” 

“  Not  one  of  them.” 

“  And  never  will  again?  ” 

“  Never.” 

“  Good  boy  forever  and  ever?  ” 

“  Forever  and  ever.” 

“  And  the  forty  were  horrid?” 

“  No,  hang  it,  Maude,  I  can’t  say  that!  ” 

She  pouted  and  hung  her  head. 

“  You  do  like  them  better,  then?  ” 


CONFESSIONS. 


139 


“  How  absurd  you  are,  Maude !  If  I  liad  liked 
one  better,  I  should  have  married  her.” 

“  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  you  would.  You  must 
have  taken  a  deeper  interest  in  me  than  in  the 
others  since  you  married  me.  I  hadn’t  thought  of 
that.” 

“  Silly  old  girl!  Of  course,  I  liked  you  best. 
Let  us  drop  the  thing  and  never  talk  about  it  any 
more.” 

“  Have  you  their  photographs?  ” 

“  Ho.” 

“  Hone  of  them?  ” 

“  Ho.” 

“  What  did  you  do  with  them?  ” 

“  I  never  had  most  of  them.” 

“  And  the  others?  ” 

“  I  destroyed  some  when  I  married.” 

“  That  was  nice  of  you.  Aren’t  you  sorry?  ” 

“  Ho,  I  thought  it  was  only  right.” 

“  Were  you  fondest  of  dark  women  or  fair?  ” 

“  Oh,  I  don’t  know.  I  was  never  pernicketty 
in  my  tastes.  You  know  those  lines  I  read  you 
from  Henley:  (  Handsome,  ugly — all  are  women.’ 
That’s  a  bachelor’s  sentiment.” 

“  But  do  you  mean  to  say,  sir — now  you  are 
speaking  on  your  honour — that  out  of  all  these  for¬ 
ty  there  was  not  one  who  was  prettier  than  I  am?  ” 


140 


A  DUET. 


“  Do  let  us  talk  of  something  else.” 

“  And  not  one  as  clever?  ” 

“  How  absurd  you  are  to-night,  Maude!  ” 

“  Come,  answer  me ! ” 

“  I’ve  answered  you  already.” 

“  I  did  not  hear  you.” 

“  Oh,  yes,  you  did.  I  said  that  I  had  married 
you,  and  that  shows  that  I  liked  you  best.  I  don’t 
compare  you  quality  for  quality  against  every  one 
in  the  world.  That  would  be  absurd.  What  I 
say  is,  that  your  combination  of  qualities  is  the  one 
which  is  most  dear  to  me.” 

“  Oh,  I  see,”  said  Maude  dubiously.  “  How 
nice  and  frank  you  are!  ” 

“  How  I’ve  hurt  you!  ” 

“  Oh,  no,  not  in  the  least.  I  like  you  to  be 
frank.  I  should  hate  to  think  that  there  was  any¬ 
thing  you  did  not  dare  to  tell  me.” 

“  And  you,  Maude — would  you  be  equally 
frank  with  me?  ” 

“  Yes,  dear,  I  will.  I  feel  that  I  owe  it  to 
you  after  your  confidence  in  me.  I  have  had  my 
little  experiences,  too.” 

“  You!” 

“  Perhaps  you  would  rather  that  I  said  noth¬ 
ing  about  them.  What  good  can  there  be  in  rak¬ 
ing  up  these  old  stories?  ” 


f 


CONFESSIONS. 


141 


u  No,  I  had  rather  you  told  me.” 

“  You  won’t  be  hurt?  ” 

“  No,  no;  certainly  not.” 

“  You  may  take  it  from  me,  Frank,  that  if  any 
married  woman  ever  tells  her  husband  that  until 
she  saw  him  she  never  felt  any  emotion  at  the 
sight  of  another  man,  it  is  simple  nonsense.  There 
may  be  women  of  that  sort  about,  but  I  never  met 
them.  I  don’t  think  I  should  like  them,  for  they 
must  be  dry,  cold,  unsympathetic,  unemotional, 
unwomanly  creatures.” 

“  Maude,  you  have  loved  some  one  else!  ” 

“  I  won’t  deny  that  I  have  been  interested, 
deeply  interested  in  several  men.” 

“  Several !  ” 

“  It  was  before  I  had  met  you,  dear.  I  owed 
you  no  duty.” 

“  You  have  loved  several  men.” 

“  The  feeling  was  for  the  most  part  quite  super¬ 
ficial.  There  are  many  different  sorts  and  degrees 
of  love.” 

“  Good  God,  Maude !  How  many  men  inspired 
this  feeling  in  you?  ” 

“  The  truth  is,  Frank,  that  a  healthy  young 
woman  who  has  imagination  and  a  warm  heart  is 
attracted  by  every  young  man.  I  know  that  you 
wish  me  to  be  frank  and  to  return  your  confidence. 


142 


A  DUET. 


But  there  is  a  certain  kind  of  young  man  with 
whom  I  always  felt  my  interest  deepen.” 

“  Oh,  you  did  discriminate.” 

u  Now  you  are  getting  bitter.  I  will  say  no 
more.” 

“  You  have  said  too  much.  You  must  go  on 
now. 

“  Well,  I  was  only  going  to  say  that  dark  men 
always  had  a  peculiar  fascination  for  me.  I  don’t 
know  what  it  is,  but  the  feeling  is  quite  over¬ 
powering.” 

“  Is  that  why  you  married  a  man  with  flaxen 
hair?  ” 

“  Well,  I  couldn’t  expect  to  find  every  quality 
in  my  husband,  could  I?  It  would  not  be  reason¬ 
able.  I  assure  you,  dear,  that,  taking  your  tout 
ensemble,  I  like  you  far  the  best  of  all.  You  may 
not  be  the  handsomest,  and  you  may  not  be  the 
cleverest — one  can  not  expect  one’s  absolute  ideal 
— but  I  love  you  far,  far  the  best  of  any.  I  do 
hope  I  haven’t  hurt  you  by  anything  I  have  said.” 

“  I  am  sorry  I  am  not  your  ideal,  Maude.  It 
would  be  absurd  to  suppose  myself  anybody’s  ideal, 
but  I  hoped  always  that  the  eyes  of  love  trans¬ 
figured  an  object  and  made  it  seem  all  right.  My 
hair  is  past  praying  for,  but  if  you  can  point  out 
anything  that  I  can  mend - ” 


CONFESSIONS. 


143 


“  No,  no;  I  want  you  just  as  you  are.  If  I 
hadn’t  liked  you  best  I  wouldn’t  have  married  you, 
Frank,  would  I?  ” 

“  But  those  other  experiences?  ” 

“  Oh,  we  had  better  drop  them.  What  good 
can  it  possibly  do  to  discuss  my  old  experiences? 
It  will  only  annoy  you.” 

“  Not  at  all.  I  honour  you  for  your  frankness 
in  speaking  out,  although  I  acknowledge  that  it  is 
a  little  unexpected.  Go  on.” 

“  I  forget  where  I  was.” 

“  You  had  just  remarked  that  before  your  mar¬ 
riage  you  had  love  affairs  with  a  number  of  men.” 

“  How  horrid  it  sounds,  doesn’t  it?  ” 

“  Well,  it  did  strike  me  in  that  way.” 

“  But  that’s  because  you  exaggerate  what  I 
said.  I  said  that  I  had  been  attracted  by  several 
men.” 

“  And  that  dark  men  thrilled  you.” 

“  Exactly.” 

“  I  had  hoped  that  I  was  the  first.” 

“  It  was  not  fated  to  be  so.  I  could  easily  tell 
you  a  lie,  Frank,  and  say  that  you  were,  but  I 
should  never  forgive  myself  if  I  were  to  do  such 
a  thing.  You  see,  I  left  school  at  seventeen,  and 
I  was  twenty-three  when  I  became  engaged  to  you. 
There  are  six  years.  Imagine  all  the  dances,  pic- 


144 


A  DUET. 


nics,  parties,  visitings,  of  six  years!  I  could  not 
help  meeting  young  men  continually.  A  good 

many  were  interested  in  me,  and  I - ” 

“You  were  interested  in  them.” 

“  It  was  natural,  Frank.” 

“  Oh,  yes,  perfectly  natural.  And  then  I  un¬ 
derstand  that  the  interest  deepened.” 

“  Sometimes.  When  you  met  a  young  man 
who  was  interested  several  times  running  at  a 
dance,  then  in  the  street,  then  in  the  garden,  then 
a  walk  home  at  night — of  course  your  interest 
began  to  deepen.” 

“  Yes.” 

“  And  then - ” 

“  Well,  what  was  the  next  stage?  ” 

“  Sure  you’re  not  angry?  ” 

“  No,  no,  not  at  all.  Why  don’t  you  keep  the 
key  in  the  spirit  stand?  ” 

“  It  might  tempt  Jemima.  Shall  I  get  it?  ” 

“No,  no;  go  on!  The  next  stage  was - ?” 

“  Well,  when  you  have  been  deeply  interested 
Borne  time,  then  you  begin  to  have  experiences.” 
“Ah!” 

“  Don’t  shout,  Frank.” 

“Did  I  shout?  Never  mind.  Go  on!  You 
had  experiences.” 

“  Why  go  into  details?  ” 


CONFESSIONS. 


145 


“  You  must  go  on.  You  have  said  too  much 
to  stop.  I  insist  upon  hearing  the  experiences.” 

“  Kot  if  you  ask  for  them  in  that  way,  Frank.’’ 
Maude  had  a  fine  dignity  of  her  own  when  she 
liked. 

“  Well,  I  don’t  insist.  I  beg  you  to  have  con¬ 
fidence  in  me,  and  tell  me  some  of  your  experi¬ 
ences.” 

She  leaned  back  in  her  armchair,  with  her  eyes 
half  closed  and  a  quiet  retrospective  smile  upon 
her  face. 

“  Well,  if  you  would  really  like  to  hear,  Frank, 
as  a  proof  of  my  confidence  and  trust,  I  will  tell 
you.  You  will  remember  that  I  had  not  seen  you 
at  the  time.” 

“  I  will  make  every  excuse.” 

“  I  will  tell  you  a  single  experience.  It  was 
my  first  of  the  sort,  and  stands  out  very  clearly  in 
my  memory.  It  all  came  through  my  being  left 
alone  with  a  gentleman  who  was  visiting  my 
mother.” 

“  Yes!  ” 

“  Well,  we  were  alone  in  the  room,  you  under¬ 
stand.” 

“  Yes,  yes;  go  on!  ” 

“  And  he  paid  me  many  little  compliments, 
kept  saying  how  pretty  I  was,  and  that  he  had 


146 


A  DUET. 


I 


never  seen  a  sweeter  girl,  and  so  on.  You  know 
what  gentlemen  would  say.” 

“And  you?  ” 

“  Oh,  I  hardly  answered  him;  but,  of  course, 
I  was  young  and  inexperienced,  and  I  could  not 
help  being  flattered  and  pleased  at  his  words.  I 
may  have  shown  him  what  I  felt,  for  he  sudden¬ 
ly - ” 

“  Kissed  you !  ” 

“  Exactly.  He  kissed  me.  Don’t  walk  up  and 
down  the  room,  dear.  It  fidgets  me.” 

“  All  right.  Go  on.  Don’t  stop.  After  this 
outrage,  what  happened  next?  ” 

“  You  really  want  to  know?  ” 

“  I  must  know.  What  did  you  do?  ” 

“  I  am  so  sorry  that  I  ever  began,  for  I  can 
see  that  it  is  exciting  you.  Light  your  pipe,  dear, 
and  let  us  talk  of  something  else.  It  will  only  nmke 
you  cross  if  I  tell  you  the  truth.” 

“  I  won’t  be  cross.  Go  on.  What  did  you 
do?” 

“  Well,  Frank,  since  you  insist — I  kissed  him 
back.” 

“  You — you  kissed  him  back!  ” 

“  You’ll  have  Jemima  up  if  you  go  on  like 
that.” 


“  You  kissed  him  back!  ” 


CONFESSIONS. 


147 


“  Yes,  dear;  it  may  be  wrong,  but  I  did.” 

“  Good  God!  Why  did  you  do  that?  ” 

“  Well,  I  liked  him.” 

“A  dark  man!” 

“  Yes,  he  was  dark.” 

“  O  Maude!  Maude!  Well,  don’t  stop.  What 
then?”  ' 

“  Then  he  kissed  me  several  times.” 

“  Of  course  he  would  if  you  kissed  him.  What 
else  could  you  expect?  And  then?  ” 

“  O  Frank!  I  can’t.” 

“  Go  on.  I  am  ready  for  anything!  ” 

“  Well,  do  sit  down  and  don’t  run  about  the 
room.  I  am  only  agitating  you.” 

“  There,  I  am  sitting.  You  can  see  that  I  am 
not  agitated.  For  Heaven’s  sake,  go  on!  ” 

“  He  asked  me  if  I  would  sit  upon  his  knee.” 

“  Yek!  ” 

Maude  began  to  laugh. 

“  Why,  Frank,  you  are  croaking  like  a  frog.” 

“  I  am  glad  you  think  it  a  laughing  matter. 
Goon!  Goon!  You  yielded  to  his  very  moderate 
and  natural  request.  You  sat  upon  his  knee.” 

“  Well,  Frank,  I  did.” 

“  Good  heavens!  ” 

“  Don’t  be  so  excitable,  dear.  It  was  long  be¬ 
fore  I  ever  saw  you.” 


148 


A  DUET. 


u  You  mean  to  sit  there  and  tell  me  in  cold 
blood  that  you  sat  upon  this  ruffian’s  knee!  ” 

“  What  else  could  I  do?  ” 

“  What  could  you  do  ?  You  could  have 
screamed,  you  could  have  rung  the  bell,  you  could 
have  struck  him.  You  could  have  risen  in  the 
dignity  of  your  insulted  womanhood  and  walked 
out  of  the  room.” 

“  It  was  not  so  easy  for  me  to  walk  out  of  the 
room.” 

“  He  held  you?  ” 

“  Yes,  he  held  me.” 

“  Oh,  if  I  had  been  there!  ” 

“  And  there  was  another  reason.” 

“  What  was  that?  ” 

“  Well,  I  wasn’t  very  good  at  walking  at  that 
time.  You  see,  I  was  only  three  years  old.” 

Frank  sat  for  a  few  minutes  absorbing  it. 

“  You  little  wretch!  ”  he  said  at  last. 

“  Oh,  you  dear  old  goose!  I  feel  so  much 
better.” 

“  You  horror!  ” 

“  I  had  to  get  level  with  you  over  my  forty 
predecessors.  You  old  Bluebeard!  But  I  did  har¬ 
row  you  a  little,  didn’t  I?  ” 

“  Harrow  me!  I’m  raw  all  over.  It’s  a  night¬ 
mare.  O  Maude!  how  could  you  have  the  heart?  ” 


CONFESSIONS. 


149 


“  Oh,  it  was  lovely,  beautiful! ” 

“  It  was  dreadful.” 

“  And  how  jealous  you  were!  Oh,  I  am  so 
glad!  ” 

“  I  don’t  think,”  said  Frank,  as  he  put  his  arms 

round  her,  “  that  I  ever  quite  realized  before - ” 

And  then  Jemima  came  in  with  the  tray. 


XI. 

CONCERNING  MRS.  BEETON. 

Frank  Crosse  had  only  been  married  some 
months  when  he  first  had  occasion  to  suspect  that 
his  wife  had  some  secret  sorrow.  There  was  a  sad¬ 
ness  and  depression  about  her  at  times  for  which 
he  was  unable  to  account.  One  Saturday  after¬ 
noon  he  happened  to  come  home  earlier  than  he 
was  expected,  and,  entering  her  bedroom  suddenly, 
he  found  her  seated  in  the  basket  chair  in  the  win¬ 
dow  with  a  large  book  upon  her  knees.  Her  face, 
as  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a  mixed  expression 
of  joy  and  of  confusion,  was  stained  by  recent  tears. 
She  put  the  book  hastily  down  upon  the  dressing- 
stand. 

“  Maude,  you’ve  been  crying.” 

“  No,  Frank,  no!  ” 

“  O  Maude!  you  fibber!  Remove  those  tears 
instantly!  ”  He  knelt  down  beside  her  and  helped. 
“  Better  now?  ” 

“  Yes,  deafest,  I  am  quite  happy.” 

150 


CONCERNING  MRS.  BEETON. 


151 


“  Tears  all  gone?  ” 

“  Quite  gone.” 

“  Well,  then,  explain.” 

“  I  didn’t  mean  to  tell  you,  Frank!  ”  She  gave 
the  prettiest,  most  provocative  little  wriggles  as 
her  secret  was  drawn  from  her.  “  I  wanted  to  do 
it  without  your  knowing.  I  thought  it  would  be 
a  surprise  for  you.  But  I  begin  to  understand  now 
that  my  ambition  was  much  too  high.  I  am  not 
clever  enough  for  it.  But  it  is  disappointing,  all 
the  same.” 

Frank  took  the  bulky  book  off  the  table.  It 
was  Mrs.  Beeton’s  book  of  Household  Manage¬ 
ment.  The  open  page  was  headed  “  General  Ob¬ 
servations  on  the  Common  Hog,”  and  underneath 
was  a  single  large  tear-drop.  It  had  fallen  upon 
a  woodcut  of  the  common  hog,  in  spite  of  which 
Frank  solemnly  kissed  it  and  turned  Maude’s  trou¬ 
ble  into  laughter. 

“  ISTow  you  are  all  right  again.  I  do  hate 
to  see  you  crying,  though  you  never  look  pret¬ 
tier.  But  tell  me,  dear,  what  was  your  ambi¬ 
tion?  ” 

“  To  know  as  much  as  any  woman  in  England 
about  housekeeping.  To  know  as  much  as  Mrs. 
Beeton.  I  wanted  to  master  every  page  of  it  from 
the  first  to  the  last.” 


152 


A  DUET. 


“  There  are  sixteen  hundred  and  forty-one  of 
them/7  said  Frank,  turning  them  over. 

“  I  know.  I  felt  that  I  would  be  quite  old  be¬ 
fore  I  had  finished.  But  the  last  part,  you  see,  is 
all  about  wills  and  bequests  and  homoeopathy  and 
things  of  that  kind.  We  could  do  it  later.  It  is 
the  early  part  that  I  want  to  learn  now,  but  it  is 
so  hard!  ” 

“  But  why  do  you  wish  to  do  it,  Maude?  ” 

“  Because  I  want  you  to  be  as  happy  as  Mr. 
Beeton.” 

'  “Til  bet  I  am!” 

“  No,  no,  you  can’t  be,  Frank.  It  says  some¬ 
where  here  that  the  happiness  and  comfort  of  the 
husband  depend  upon  the  housekeeping  of  the  wife. 
Mrs.  Beeton  must  have  been  the  finest  housekeeper 
in  the  world.  Therefore,  Mr.  Beeton  must  have 
been  the  happiest  and  most  comfortable  man.  But 
why  should  Mr.  Beeton  be  happier  and  more  com¬ 
fortable  than  my  Frank?  From  the  hour  I  read 
that  I  determined  that  he  shouldn’t  be — and  he 
won’t  be !  ” 

“  And  he  isn’t.” 

“  Oh,  you  think  so.  But  then  you  know  noth¬ 
ing  about  it.  You  think  it  right  because  I  do  it. 
But  if  you  were  visiting  Mrs.  Beeton,  you  would 
soon  see  the  difference.” 


CONCERNING  MRS.  BEETON. 


153 


“  What  an  awkward  trick  you  have  of  always 
sitting  in  a  window!  ”  said  Frank,  after  an  inter¬ 
val.  “I’ll  swear  that  the  wise  Mrs.  Beeton  never 
advocates  that — with  half  a  dozen  other  windows 
within  point-blank  range.” 

“  Well,  then,  you  shouldn’t  do  it.” 

“  Well,  then,  you  shouldn’t  be  so  nice.” 

“  You  really  still  think  that  I  am  nice!  ” 

<e  Fishing!  ” 

“  After  all  these  months?  ” 

“  Nicer  and  nicer  every  day.” 

“  Not  a  hit  tired?  ” 

“  You  blessing!  When  I  am  tired  of  you  I 
shall  be  tired  of  life.” 

“  How  wonderful  it  all  seems!  ” 

“  Does  it  not?  ” 

“  To  think  of  that  first  day  at  the  tennis  party! 
‘  I  hope  you  are  not  a  very  good  player,  Mr. 
Crosse!  ’  ‘  No,  Miss  Selby,  but  I  shall  be  happy 

to  make  one  in  a  set.’  That’s  how  we  began.  And 
now!  ” 

u  Yes,  it  is  wonderful.” 

“  And  at  dinner  afterward.  c  Do  you  like 
Irving’s  acting?  ’  ‘  Yes,  I  think  that  he  is  a  great 
genius.’  How  formal  and  precise  we  were!  And 
now  I  sit  curling  your  hair  in  a  bedroom  window.” 

“  It  does  seem  funny.  But  I  suppose,  if  you 

11 


154 


A  DUET. 


come  to  think  of  it,  something  of  the  same  kind 
must  have  happened  to  one  or  two  people  before.” 

“  But  never  quite  like  us.” 

“  Oh,  no,  never  quite  like  us.  But  with  a  kind 
of  family  resemblance,  you  know.  Married  people 
do  usually  end  by  knowing  each  other  a  little  better 
than  on  the  first  day  they  met.” 

“  What  did  you  think  of  me,  Frank?  ” 

“  I’ve  told  you  often.” 

“  Well,  tell  me  again.” 

“  What’s  the  use,  when  you  know?  ” 

“  But  I  like  to  hear.” 

“  Well,  it’s  just  spoiling  you.” 

“  I  love  to  be  spoiled.” 

“  Well,  then,  I  thought  to  myself,  ‘  If  I  can 
only  have  that  woman  for  my  own  I  believe  I  will 
do  something  in  life  yet.’  And  I  also  thought,  ‘  If 
I  don’t  get  that  woman  for  my  own,  I  will  never, 
never  be  the  same  man  again.’  ” 

“  Keally,  Frank,  the  very  first  day  you  saw 
me?  ” 

“  Yes,  the  very  first  day.” 

“  And  then - ?  ” 

“  And  then  day  by  day  and  week  by  week  that 
feeling  grew  deeper  and  stronger,  until  at  last  you 
swallowed  up  all  my  other  hopes  and  ambitions 
and  interests.  I  hardly  dare  think,  Maude,  what 


CONCERNING  MRS.  BEETON. 


155 


would  have  happened  to  me  if  you  had  refused 
me.” 

She  laughed  aloud  with  delight. 

“  How  sweet  it  is  to  hear  you  say  so!  And  the 
wonderful  thing  is  that  you  have  never  seemed 
disappointed.  I  always  expected  that  some  day 
after  marriage — not  immediately,  perhaps,  but  at 
the  end  of  a  week  or  so — you  would  suddenly  give 
a  start  like  those  poor  people  who  are  hypnotized, 
and  you  would  say:  ‘  Why,  I  used  to  think  that 
she  was  pretty.  I  used  to  think  that  she  was  sweet. 
How  could  I  be  so  infatuated  over  a  little  insig¬ 
nificant,  ignorant,  selfish,  uninteresting — ’  O 
Frank!  the  neighbours  will  see  you!  ” 

“  Well,  then,  you  mustn’t  provoke  me.” 

“  What  will  Mrs.  Potter  think!  ” 

“  You  should  pull  down  the  blinds  before  you 
make  speeches  of  that  sort.” 

“  How  do  sit  quiet  and  be  a  good  boy!  ” 

“  Well,  then,  tell  me  what  you  thought.” 

“  I  thought  you  were  a  very  good  tennis- 
player.” 

“  Anything  else?  ” 

“  And  you  talked  nicely.” 

“  Did  I?  I  never  felt  such  a  stick  in  my  life. 
I  was  as  nervous  as  a  cat.” 

“  That  was  so  delightful.  I  do  hate  people 


156 


A  DUET. 


who  are  very  cool  and  assured.  I  saw  that  yon 

were  disturbed,  and  I  even  thought - ” 

“  Yes?” 

“  Well,  I  thought  that  perhaps  it  was  I  who 
disturbed  you.” 

“  And  you  liked  me?  ” 

“  I  was  very  interested  in  you.” 

“  Well,  that  is  the  blessed  miracle  which  I  can 
never  get  over.  You  with  your  beauty  and  your 
grace  and  your  rich  father  and  every  young  man 
at  your  feet,  and  I  a  fellow  with  neither  good  looks, 

nor  learning,  nor  prospects,  nor - ” 

“  Be  quiet,  sir!  Yes,  you  shall!  Now!  ” 

“  By  Jove!  there  is  old  Mrs.  Potter  at  the 
window!  We’ve  done  it  this  time.  Let  us  get 
back  to  serious  conversation  again.” 
a  How  did  we  leave  it?  ” 

“  It  was  that  hog,  I  believe.  And  then  Mr. 
Beeton.  But  where  does  the  hog  come  in?  Why 
should  you  weep  over  him?  And  what  are  the 
lady’s  observations  on  the  common  hog?  ” 

“  Bead  them  for  yourself.” 

Frank  read  out  aloud:  “  ‘  The  hog  belongs  to 
the  order  Mammalia ,  the  genus  Sus  scrofa ,  and  the 
species  pachydermata ,  or  thick-skinned.  Its  gen¬ 
eric  characters  are  a  long  flexible  snout,  forty-two 
teeth,  cloven  feet  furnished  with  four  toes,  and  a 


CONCERNING  MRS.  BEETON. 


157 


tail  which  is  small,  short,  and  twisted,  while  in 
some  varieties  this  appendage  is  altogether  want¬ 
ing.’  But  what  on  earth  has  all  this  to  do  with 
housekeeping?  ” 

“  That’s  what  I  want  to  know.  It  is  so  dis¬ 
heartening  to  have  to  remember  such  things. 
What  does  it  matter  if  the  hog  has  forty-two  tails? 
And  yet  if  Mrs.  Beeton  knew  it,  one  feels  that 
one  ought  to  know  it  also.  If  once  I  began  to  skip, 
there  would  be  no  end  to  it.  But  it  really  is  such 
a  splendid  book  in  other  ways.  It  doesn’t  matter 
what  you  want,  you  will  find  it  here.  Take  the 
index  anywhere.  Cream.  If  you  want  cream,  it’s 
all  there.  Croup.  If  you  want —  I  mean  if  you 
don’t  want  croup,  it  will  teach  you  how  not  to  get 
it.  Crumpets — all  about  them.  Crullers —  I’m 
6ure  you  don’t  know  what  a  cruller  is,  Frank.” 

“  No,  I  don’t.” 

“  Neither  do  I.  But  I  could  look  it  up  and 
learn.  Here  it  is — paragraph  2847.  It  is  a  sort 
of  pancake,  you  see.  That’s  how  you  learn  things.” 

Frank  Crosse  took  the  book  and  dropped  it.  It 
fell  with  a  sulky  thud  upon  the  floor. 

“  Nothing  that  it  can  teach  you,  dear,  can  ever 
make  up  to  me  if  it  makes  you  cry  and  bothers 
you.  You  bloated,  pedantic  thing!  ”  he  cried,  in 
sudden  fury,  aiming  a  kick  at  the  squat  volume. 


158 


A  DUET. 


“  It  is  to  you  I  owe  all  those  sad,  tired  looks  which 
I  have  seen  upon  my  wife’s  face.  I  know  my 
enemy  now.  You  pompous,  fussy  old  humbug, 
I’ll  kick  the  red  cover  off  you!  ” 

But  Maude  snatched  it  up  and  gathered  it 
to  her  bosom.  “  No,  no,  Frank,  I  don’t  know 
what  I  should  do  without  it.  You  have  no  idea 
what  a  wise  old  book  it  is.  Now  sit  there  on 
the  foot-stool  at  my  feet,  and  I  will  read  to 
you.” 

“  Do,  dear,  it’s  delightful.” 

“  Sit  quiet,  then,  and  be  good.  Now  listen  to 
this  pearl  of  wisdom :  c  As  with  the  commander 
of  an  army  so  it  is  with  the  mistress  of  a  house. 
Her  spirit  will  be  seen  through  the  whole  estab¬ 
lishment,  and  just  in  proportion  as  she  performs 
her  duties  thoroughly  so  will  her  domestics  follow 
in  her  path.’  ” 

“  From  which  it  follows,”  said  her  husband, 

v 

“  that  Jemima  must  be  a  perfect  paragon.” 

a  On  the  contrary,  it  explains  all  Jemima’s 
shortcomings.  Listen  to  this:  ‘  Early  rising  is  one 
of  the  most  essential  qualities.  When  a  mistress 
is  an  earlv  riser,  it  is  almost  certain  that  her  house 
will  be  orderly  and  well  managed.’  ” 

“  Well,  you  are  down  at  nine.  What  more  do 
you  want?  ” 


CONCERNING  MRS.  BEETON. 


159 


u  At  nine !  I  am  sure  that  Mrs.  Beeton  was 
always  up  at  six.” 

“  I  have  my  doubts  about  Mrs.  B.  Methinks 
the  lady  doth  protest  too  much.  I  should  not  be 
very  much  surprised  to  learn  that  she  had  break¬ 
fast  in  bed  every  morning.” 

“  O  Frank!  You  have  no  reverence  for  any¬ 
thing.” 

“  Let  us  have  some  more  wisdom.” 

“  ‘  Frugality  and  economy  are  home  virtues 
without  which  no  household  can  prosper.’  Dr. 
Johnson  says,  <  Frugality  may  be  termed — ’  Oh, 
bother  Dr.  Johnson!  Who  cares  for  a  man’s  opin¬ 
ion?  Now,  if  it  had  been  Mrs.  Johnson!  ” 

“  Johnson  kept  house  for  himself  for  years — 
and  a  queer  job  he  made  of  it.” 

“  So  I  should  think.”  Maude  tossed  her  pretty 
curls.  “  Mrs.  Beeton  is  all  right,  but  I  will  not 
be  lectured  by  Dr.  Johnson.  Where  was  I?  Oh, 
yes.  ‘  We  must  always  remember  that  to  man¬ 
age  a  little  well  is  a  great  merit  in  housekeep¬ 
ing.’  ” 

“  Hurrah!  Down  with  the  second  vegetable! 
No  pudding  on  fish  days.  Vive  la  Here  de  Pil - 
sen !  ” 

“  What  a  noisy  boy  you  are !  ” 

“  This  book  excites  me.  Anything  more?  ” 


160 


A  DUET. 


“  *  Friendships  should  not  be  hastily  formed, 
nor  the  heart  given  at  once  to  every  newcomer.’  ” 
“  Well,  I  should  hope  not!  Don’t  let  me  catch 
you  at  it!  You  don’t  mind  my  cigarette?  Has 
Mrs.  Beeton  a  paragraph  about  smoking  in  bed¬ 
rooms?  ” 

“  Such  an  enormity  never  occurred  to  her  as  a 
remote  possibility.  If  she  had  known  you,  dear, 
she  would  have  had  to  write  an  appendix  to  her 
book  to  meet  all  the  new  problems  which  you 
would  suggest.  Shall  I  go  on?  ” 

“  Please  do.” 

u  She  next  treats  conversation.  ‘  In  conversa¬ 
tion  trifling  occurrences,  such  as  small  disappoint¬ 
ments,  petty  annoyances,  and  other  everyday  in¬ 
cidents,  should  never  be  mentioned  to  friends.  If 
the  mistress  be  a  wife,  never  let  a  word  in  connec¬ 
tion  with  her  husband’s  failings  pass  her  lips - ’  ” 

“  By  J ove !  this  book  has  more  wisdom  to  the 
square  inch  than  any  work  of  man,”  cried  Frank 
in  enthusiasm. 

“  I  thought  that  would  please  you.  ‘  Good 
temper  should  be  cultivated  by  every  mistress,  as 
upon  it  the  welfare  of  the  household  may  be  said 
to  turn.’  ” 

“  Excellent!  ” 

"  1  In  starting  a  household  it  is  always  best  in 


CONCERNING  MRS.  BEETON. 


161 


the  long  run  to  get  the  very  best  articles  of  their 
kind.’  ” 

“  That  is  why  I  got  you,  Maude.” 

“  Thank  you,  sir.  We  have  a  dissertation  then 

upon  dress  and  fashion,  another  upon  engaging 

domestics,  another  about  daily  duties,  another 

about  visiting,  another  about  fresh  air  and  exer- 
•  yy 

cise - 

“  The  most  essential  of  any!  ”  cried  Frank, 
jumping  up  and  pulling  his  wife  by  the  arms  out 
of  her  low  wicker-chair.  “  There  is  just  time  for 
nine  holes  at  golf  before  it  is  dark,  if  you  will 
come  exactly  as  you  are.  But  listen  to  this,  young 
lady.  If  ever  again  I  see  you  fretting  or  troubling 

yourself  about  your  household  affairs - ” 

“ No,  no,  Frank,  I  won’t!” 

“  Well,  if  you  do,  Mrs.  Beeton  goes  into  the 
kitchen  fire.  Now,  remember!  ” 

“  You  are  sure  you  don’t  envy  Mr.  Beeton?  ” 
“  I  don’t  envy  a  man  upon  earth.” 
u  Then  why  should  I  try  to  be  Mrs.  Beeton?  ” 
“  Why,  indeed !  ” 

“  O  Frank!  what  a  load  off  my  mind!  Those 
sixteen  hundred  pages  have  just  lain  upon  it  for 
months.  Dear  old  boy!  Come  on!  ” 

And  they  clattered  downstairs  for  their  golf 
clubs. 


XII. 


MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 

There  were  few  things  which  Maude  liked  so 
much  as  a  long  winter  evening  when  Frank  and 
she  dined  together  and  then  sat  beside  the  fire  and 
made  good  cheer.  It  would  be  an  exaggeration  to 
say  that  she  preferred  it  to  a  dance,  hut  next  to 
that  supreme  joy,  and  higher  even  than  the  theatre 
in  her  scale  of  pleasures,  were  those  serene  and  in¬ 
timate  evenings  when  they  talked  at  their  will, 
and  were  silent  at  their  will,  with  their  home 
brightened  by  those  little  jokes  and  endearments 
and  allusions  which  make  up  that  inner  domestic 
masonry  which  is  close-tiled  forever  to  the  out- 
sider.  Five  or  six  evenings  a  week  she  with  her 
sewing  and  Frank  with  his  book  settled  down  to 
such  enjoyment  as  men  go  to  the  ends  of  the  earth 
to  seek,  while  it  awaits  them,  if  they  will  but  attune 
their  souls  to  sympathy,  beside  their  own  hearth¬ 
stones.  FTow  and  again  their  sweet  calm  would 

be  broken  by  a  ring  at  the  bell,  when  some  friend 

162 


MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


163 


of  Frank’s  would  come  round  to  pay  them  an  even¬ 
ing  visit.  At  the  sound  Maude  would  say,  “  Both¬ 
er!  ”  and  Frank  something  shorter  and  stronger; 
but  as  the  intruder  appeared  they  would  both 
break  into  “  Well,  really  now  it  was  good  of  you 
to  drop  in  upon  us  in  this  homely  way.”  Without 
such  hypocrisy  the  world  would  be  a  hard  place 
to  live  in. 

I  may  have  mentioned  somewhere  that  Frank 
had  a  catholic  taste  in  literature.  Upon  a  shelf  in 
their  bedroom — a  relic  of  his  bachelor  days — there 
stood  a  small  line  of  his  intimate  books,  the  books 
which  filled  all  the  chinks  of  his  life  when  no  new 
books  were  forthcoming.  They  were  all  volumes 
which  he  had  read  in  his  youth,  and  many  times 
since,  until  they  had  become  the  very  tie-beams 
of  his  mind.  His  tastes  were  healthy  and  obvious 
without  being  fine.  Macaulay’s  Essays,  Holmes’s 
Autocrat,  Gibbon’s  History,  Jeffries’s  Story  of  My 
Heart,  Carlyle’s  Life,  Pepys’s  Diary,  and  Barrow’s 
Lavengro  were  among  his  inner  circle  of  literary 
friends.  The  sturdy  East  Anglian,  half  prize 
fighter,  half  missionary,  was  a  particular  favourite 
of  his,  and  so  was  the  garrulous  Secretary  of  the 
Xavy.  One  day  it  struck  him  that  it  would  be  a 
pleasant  thing  to  induce  his  wife  to  share  his  en¬ 
thusiasms,  and  he  suggested  that  the  evenings 


164 


A  DUET. 


should  be  spent  in  reading  selections  from  these 
old  friends  of  his.  Maude  was  delighted.  If  he 
had  proposed  to  read  the  Rig- Vedas  in  the  original 
Sanskrit,  Maude  would  have  listened  with  a  smil¬ 
ing  face.  It  is  in  such  trifles  that  a  woman’s  love 
is  more  than  a  man’s. 

That  night  Frank  came  downstairs  with  a  thick, 
well-thumbed  volume  in  his  hand. 

“  This  is  Mr.  Pepys,”  said  he  solemnly. 

“  What  a  funny  name!”  cried  Maude.  “It 
makes  me  think  of  indigestion.  Why?  Oh,  yes; 
pepsine,  of  course.” 

“We  shall  take  a  dose  of  him  every  night  after 
dinner  to  complete  the  resemblance.  But  serious¬ 
ly,  dear,  I  think  that  now  that  we  have  taken  up 
a  course  of  reading  we  should  try  to  approach  it 
in  a  grave  spirit,  and  endeavour  to  realize —  Oh, 
I  say,  don’t!  ” 

“  I  am  so  sorry,  dear!  I  do  hope  I  didn’t  hurt 
you.” 

“You  did,  considerably.” 

“  It  all  came  from  my  having  the  needle  in 
my  hand  at  the  time — and  you  looked  so  solemn — 
and— well,  I  couldn’t  help  it.” 

“  Little  wretch!  ” 

“  FTo,  dear,  Jemima  may  come  in  any  moment 
with  the  coffee.  Now  do  sit  down  and  read  about 


I 


MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


165 


Mr.  Pepys  to  me.  And,  first  of  all,  would  you 
mind  explaining  all  about  the  gentleman  from  the 
beginning,  and  taking  nothing  for  granted,  just  as 
if  I  had  never  heard  of  him  before/’ 

“  I  don’t  believe - ” 

“  Never  mind,  sir!  Be  a  good  boy,  and  do  ex¬ 
actly  what  you  are  told.  Now  begin!  ” 

“  Well,  Maude,  Mr.  Pepys  was  bom - ” 

“  What  was  his  first  name?  ” 

“  Samuel.” 

“  Oh,  dear,  Pm  sure  I  should  not  have  liked 
him.” 

“  Well,  it’s  too  late  to  change  that.  He  was 
bom — I  could  see  by  looking,  but  it  really  doesn’t 
matter,  does  it?  He  was  born  somewhere  in  six¬ 
teen  hundred  and  something  or  other,  and  I  forget 
what  his  father  was.” 

“  I  must  try  to  remember  all  you  tell  me.” 

“  Well,  it  all  amounts  to  this — that  he  got  on 
pretty  well  in  the  world,  that  he  became  at  last  a 
high  official  of  the  navy  in  the  time  of  Charles  II, 
and  that  he  died  in  fairly  good  circumstances  and 
left  his  library,  which  was  a  fine  one,  to  one  of 
the  universities,  I  can’t  remember  which.” 

“  There  is  an  accuracy  about  your  information, 
Frank — 

“  I  know,  dear,  but  it  really  does  not  matter. 


166 


A  DUET. 


All  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  main  ques¬ 
tion.” 

“  Go  on,  then!  ” 

“  Well,  this  library  was  left  as  a  kind  of  dust 
catcher,  as  such  libraries  are,  until  one  day,  more 
than  a  hundred  years  after  the  old  boy’s  death, 
some  enterprising  person  seems  to  have  examined 
his  books,  and  he  found  a  number  of  volumes  of 
writing  which  were  all  in  cipher,  so  that  no  one 
could  make  head  or  tail  of  them.” 

“  Dear  me,  how  very  interesting!  ” 

“  Yes,  it  naturally  excited  curiosity.  Why 
should  a  man  write  volumes  of  cipher?  Imagine 
the  labour  of  it!  So  some  one  set  to  work  to  solve 
the  cipher.  This  was  about  the  year  1820.  After 
three  years  they  succeeded.” 

“  How  in  the  world  did  they  do  it?  ” 

“  Well,  they  say  that  human  ingenuity  never 
yet  invented  a  cipher  which  human  ingenuity 
could  not  also  solve.  Anyhow,  they  did  succeed. 
And  when  they  had  done  so,  and  copied  it  all  out 
clean,  they  found  they  had  got  hold  of  such  a  book 
as  was  never  heard  of  before  in  the  whole  history 
of  literature.” 

Maude  laid  her  sewing  on  her  lap  and  looked 
across  with  her  lips  parted  and  her  eyebrows  raised. 

“  They  found  that  it  was  an  inner  diary  of  the 


MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


167 


life  of  this  man,  with  all  his  impressions,  and  all 
his  doings,  and  all  his  thoughts — not  his  ought-to- 
be  thoughts,  but  his  real,  real  thoughts,  just  as 
he  thought  them  at  the  back  of  his  soul.  You 
see  this  man  and  you  know  him  very  much  better 
than  his  own  wife  knew  him.  It  is  not  only  that 
he  tells  of  his  daily  doings,  and  gives  us  such  an 
intimate  picture  of  life  in  those  days  as  could  by 
no  other  means  have  been  conveyed,  but  it  is  as  a 
bit  of  psychology  that  the  thing  is  so  valuable.  Re¬ 
member  the  dignity  of  the  man,  a  high  government 
official,  an  orator,  a  writer,  a  patron  of  learn¬ 
ing;  and  here  you  have  the  other  side,  the  little 
thoughts,  the  mean  ideas  which  may  lurk  under  a 
bewigged  head  and  behind  a  solemn  countenance. 
Not  that  he  is  worse  than  any  of  us.  Not  a  bit. 
But  he  is  frank.  And  that  is  why  the  book  is 
really  a  consoling  one,  for  every  sinner  who  reads 
it  can  say  to  himself,  1  Well,  if  this  man,  who  did 
so  well  and  was  so  esteemed,  felt  like  this,  it  is 
no  very  great  wonder  that  I  do.’  ” 

Maude  looked  at  the  fat  brown  book  with  curi¬ 
osity.  “Is  it  really  all  there?  ”  she  asked. 

“  No,  dear,  it  will  never  all  be  published.  A 
good  deal  of  it  is,  I  believe,  quite  impossible.  And 
when  he  came  to  the  impossible  places  he  doubled 
and  trebled  his  cipher,  so  as  to  make  sure  that  it 


168 


A  DUET. 


would  never  be  made  out.  But  all  that  is  usually 

v 

published  is  here.”  Frank  turned  over  the  leaves, 
which  were  marked  here  and  there  with  pencil- 
lings. 

“  Why  are  you  smiling,  Frank?  ” 

“  Only  at  his  way  of  referring  to  his  wife.” 

“  Oh,  he  was  married !  ” 

“  Yes,  to  a  very  charming  girl.  She  must  have 
been  a  sweet  creature.  He  married  her  at  fifteen, 
on  account  of  her  beauty.  He  had  a  keen  eye  for 
beauty,  had  old  Pepys.” 

“  Were  they  happy?  ” 

“  Oh,  yes,  fairly  so.  She  was  only  twenty-nine 
when  she  died.” 

“  Poor  girl!  ” 

“  She  was  happy  in  her  life,  though  he  did 
blacken  her  eye  once.” 

“  Hot  really?  ” 

“  Yes,  he  did.  And  kicked  the  housemaid.” 

“  Oh,  the  brute !  ” 

“  But,  on  the  whole,  he  was  a  good  husband. 
He  had  a  few  very  good  points  about  him.” 

“  But  how  does  he  allude  to  his  wife?  ” 

“  He  has  a  trick  of  saying,  ‘  My  wife,  poor 
wretch ! ?  ” 

“  Impertinent !  Frank,  you  said  to-night  that 
other  men  think  what  this  odious  Mr.  Pepys  says. 


MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


169 


Yes,  you  did!  Don’t  deny  it!  Does  that  mean 
that  you  always  think  of  me  as  ‘  poor  wretch  ’  ?  ” 

“  We  have  come  along  a  little  since  then.  But 
how  these  passages  take  you  back  to  the  homely 
life  of  those  days!  ” 

“  Do  read  some.” 

“  Well,  listen  to  this:  ‘  And  then  to  bed  with¬ 
out  prayers,  to-morrow  being  washing  day.’  Fancy 
such  a  detail  coming  down  to  us  through  two  cen¬ 
turies!  ” 

“  Why  no  prayers?  ” 

“  I  don’t  know.  I  suppose  they  had  to  get  up 
early  on  washing  days,  and  so  they  wanted  to  get 
to  sleep  soon.” 

“  I’m  afraid,  dear,  you  do  the  same  without  as 
good  an  excuse.  Bead  another.” 

“  He  goes  to  dine  with  some  one — his  uncle, 
I  think.  lie  says,  ‘  An  excellent  dinner,  but  the 
venison  pasty  was  palpable  beef,  which  was  not 
handsome.’  ” 

“  How  beautiful!  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer’s  sole 

\ 

last  week  was  palpable  plaice.  Mr.  Pepys  is  right. 
It  was  not  handsome.” 

“  Here’s  another  grand  entry:  ‘  Talked  with  my 
wife  of  the  poorness  and  meanness  of  all  that  the 
people  about  us  do  compared  with  what  we  do.’ 

I  dare  say  he  was  right,  for  they  did  things  very 

12 


170 


A  DUET. 


well.  When  he  dined  out,  he  says  that  his  host 
gave  him  ‘  the  meanest  dinner  of  beef,  shoulder 
and  umbles  of  venison,  and  a  few  pigeons,  and  all 
in  the  meanest  manner  that  ever  I  did  see,  to  the 
basest  degree.*  ’* 

“  What  are  umbles,  dear?  ** 

“  I  have  no  idea.’* 

“  Well,  whatever  they  are,  it  sounds  to  me  a 
very  good  dinner.  People  must  have  lived  very 
well  in  those  days.** 

“  They  habitually  overate  and  overdrank  them¬ 
selves.  But  Pepys  gives  us  the  menu  of  one  of  his 
own  entertainments.  I*ve  marked  it  somewhere. 
Yes,  here  it  is:  ‘  Fricassee  of  rabbits  and  chickens, 

a  leg  of  mutton  boiled,  three  carps  in  a  dish,  a 

/ 

great  dish  of  a  side  of  lamb,  a  dish  of  roasted 
pigeons,  a  dish  of  four  lobsters,  three  tarts,  a  lam¬ 
prey  pie  (a  most  rare  pie!),  a  dish  of  anchovies, 
good  wine  of  several  sorts,  and  all  things  mighty 
noble  and  to  my  great  content.*  ** 

“  Good  gracious!  I  told  you  that  I  associated 
him  with  indigestion.’* 

“  He  did  them  pretty  well  that  time.** 

"  Who  cooked  all  this?  ** 

“  The  wife  helped  in  those  days.** 

“  Ho  wonder  she  died  at  twenty-nine.  Poor 
dear!  What  a  splendid  kitchen  range  they  must 


MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


171 


have  had!  I  never  understood  before  why  they 
had  such  enormous  grates  in  the  old  days.  Natu¬ 
rally,  if  you  have  six  pigeons,  and  a  lamprey,  and 
a  lobster,  and  a  side  of  lamb,  and  a  leg  of  mutton, 
and  all  these  other  things  cooking  at  the  same 
time,  they  would  need  a  huge  fire.” 

“  The  wonderful  thing  about  Pepys,”  said 
Frank,  looking  thoughtfully  over  the  pages,  “  is 
that  he  is  capable  of  noting  down  the  mean  little 
impulses  of  human  nature  which  most  men  would 
be  so  ashamed  of  that  they  would  hasten  to  put 
them  out  of  their  mind — his  occasional  shabbiness 
in  money  matters,  his  jealousies,  his  envies,  all  his 
petty  faults  which  are  despicable  on  account  of 
their  pettiness.  Fancy  any  man  writing  this:  He 
is  describing  how  he  visited  a  friend,  and  was  read¬ 
ing  a  book  from  his  library.  ‘  A  very  good  book/ 
says  he,  i  especially  one  letter  of  advice  to  a  court¬ 
ier,  most  true  and  good,  which  made  me  once  re¬ 
solve  to  tear  out  the  two  leaves  that  it  wras  writ  in, 
but  I  forbore  it.’  Imagine  recording  such  a  vile 
thought!  ” 

“  But  what  you  have  never  explained  to  me 
yet,  dear,  or  if  you  did  I  didn’t  understand — you 
don’t  mind  my  being  a  little  stupid,  do  you? — is 
what  object  Mr.  Pepys  had  in  putting  down  all 
this  in  such  a  form  that  no  one  could  read  it.” 


172 


A  DUET. 


“  Well,  you  must  bear  in  mind,  dear,  that  he 
could  read  it  himself.  Besides,  he  was  a  fellow 
\?ith  a  singularly  methodical  side  to  his  mind.  He 
was,  for  example,  continually  adding  up  how  much 
money  he  had,  or  cataloguing  and  indexing  his 
library,  and  so  on.  He  liked  to  have  everything 
shipshape.  And  so  with  his  life  it  pleased  him 
to  have  an  exact  record  which  he  could,  turn  to. 
And  yet,  after  all,  I  don’t  know  that  that  is  a  suf¬ 
ficient  explanation.” 

“  Ho,  indeed,  it  is  not.  My  experience  of 
men - ” 

“ Your  experience,  indeed!  ” 

“  Yes,  sir,  my  experience  of  men — how  rude 
you  are,  Frank! — tells  me  that  they  have  funny 
little  tricks  and  vanities  which  take  the  queerest 
shapes.” 

“  Indeed!  Have  I  any?” 

“  You — you  are  compounded  of  them.  Hot 
vanity;  no,  I  don’t  mean  that.  But  pride — you 
are  as  proud  as  Lucifer,  and  much  too  proud  to 
show  it.  That  is  the  most  subtle  form  of  pride. 
Oh,  yes,  I  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean.  But 
in  this  man’s  case  it  took  the  form  of  wishing  to 
make  a  sensation  after  his  death.  He  could  not 
publish  such  a  thing  when  he  lived,  could  he  ?  ” 

“  Rather  not.” 


MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


173 


“  Well,  then,  he  had  to  do  it  after  his  death. 
He  had  to  write  it  in  cipher,  or  else  some  one  would 
have  found  him  out  during  his  lifetime.  But  very 
likely  he  left  a  key  to  the  cipher,  so  that  every 
one  might  read  it  when  he  was  gone,  but  the  key 
and  his  directions  were  in  some  way  lost.” 

“  Well,  it  is  very  probable.” 

The  fire  had  died  down,  so  Maude  slipped  off 
her  chair  and  sat  on  the  black  fur  rug  with  her 
back  against  Frank’s  knees.  “  Now,  dear,  read 
away,”  said  she. 

But  the  lamp  shone  down  upon  her  dainty 
head,  and  it  gleamed  upon  her  white  neck  and 
upon  the  fluffy,  capricious,  untidy,  adorable  little 
curlets  which  broke  out  along  the  edges  of  the 
gathered  strands  of  her  chestnut  hair.  And  so, 
after  the  fashion  of  men,  his  thoughts  flew  away 
from  Mr.  Pepys  and  the  seventeenth  century  and 
all  that  is  lofty  and  instructive,  and  could  fix  upon 
nothing  except  those  dear  little  wandering  tendrils 
and  the  white  column  on  which  they  twined.  Alas! 
that  so  small  a  thing  can  bring  the  human  mind 
from  its  empyrean  flights!  Alas!  that  vague  emo¬ 
tions  can  drag  down  the  sovereign  intellect!  Alas! 
that  even  for  an  hour  a  man  should  prefer  the  ma¬ 
terial  to  the  spiritual ! 

But  the  man  who  doesn’t  misses  a  good  deal. 


XIII. 

A  VISIT  TO  MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 

There  are  several  unjustifiable  extravagances 
which  every  normal  man  commits.  There  are  also 
several  unjustifiable  economies.  Among  others, 
there  is  that  absurd  eagerness  to  save  the  striking 
of  a  second  match  which  occasions  so  many  burned 
fingers  and  such  picturesque  language.  And, 
again,  there  is  the  desire  to  compress  a  telegraphic 
message  into  the  minimum  sixpenny  worth,  and  so 
send  an  ambiguous  and  cryptic  sentence  when  sev- 
enpence  would  have  made  it  as  clear  as  light.  We 
all  tend  to  be  stylists  in  our  telegrams. 

A  week  after  the  conversation  about  Mr.  Pepys, 
when  some  progress  had  been  made  with  the  read¬ 
ing  of  the  diary,  Maude  received  the  following 
wire  from  Frank: 

“  Mrs.  Crosse ,  Woking : 

“  Pepys  buttered  toast  suede  gloves  four'  Monu¬ 
ment  wait  late.” 

174 


A  VISIT  TO  MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS.  175 


As  a  sixpenny  worth  it  was  a  success,  but  as 
a  message  it  seemed  to  leave  something  to  be  de¬ 
sired.  Maude  puzzled  over  it,  and  tried  every  pos¬ 
sible  combination  of  the  words.  The  nearest  ap¬ 
proach  to  sense  was  when  it  was  divided  in  this 
way : 

Pepys — buttered  toast — suede  gloves — four — 
Monument  wait  late. 

She  wrote  it  out  in  this  form  and  took-  it  sec¬ 
tion  by  section.  “  Pepys,”  that  was  unintelligible. 
“  Buttered  toast,”  no  sense  in  that.  “  Suede 
gloves.”  Yes,  she  had  told  Frank  that  when  she 
came  to  town  she  would  buy  some  suede  gloves  at 
a  certain  shop  in  the  city,  where  she  could  get  for 
three  and  threepence  a  pair  which  would  cost  her 
three  and  ninepence  in  Woking.  Maude  was  so 
conscientiously  economical  that  she  was  always 
prepared  to  spend  two  shillings  in  railway  fares  to 
reach  a  spot  where  a  sixpence  was  to  be  saved,  and 
to  lavish  her  nerve  and  energy  freely  in  the  ven¬ 
ture.  Here,  then,  in  the  suede  gloves  was  a  cen¬ 
tral  point  of  light.  And  then  her  heart  bounded 
with  joy  as  she  realized  that  the  last  part  could 
only  mean  that  she  was  to  meet  Frank  at  the  Monu¬ 
ment  at  four,  and  that  she  was  to  wait  for  him 
if  he  were  late. 

So  now  returning  to  the  opening  of  the  mee 


176 


A  DUET. 


cage  with  the  light  which  shone  from  the  ending, 
she  realized  that  buttered  toast  might  refer  to 
a  queer  little  city  hostel  remarkable  for  that  lux¬ 
ury,  where  Frank  had  already  taken  her  twice  to 
tea.  And  so  leaving  Mr.  Pepys  to  explain  him¬ 
self  later,  Maude  gave  hurried  orders  to  Jemima 
and  the  cook,  and  dashed  upstairs  to  put  on  her 
new  fawn-coloured  walking  dress — a  garment 
which  filled  her  with  an  extraordinary  mixture  of 
delight  and  remorse,  for  it  was  very  smart,  cost 
seven  guineas,  and  had  not  yet  been  paid  for. 

The  rendezvous  was  evidently  a  sudden  thought 
upon  the  part  of  Frank,  for  he  had  left  very  little 
time  for  her  to  reach  the  trysting  place.  However, 
she  was  fortunate  in  catching  a  train  to  Waterloo, 
and  another  thence  to  the  city,  and  so  readied  the 
Monument  at  five  minutes  to  four.  The  hour  was 
just  striking  when  Frank  with  his  well-brushed 
top-hat  and  immaculate  business  frock-coat  came 
rushing  from  the  direction  of  King  William  Street. 
Maude  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  shook  it,  and 
then  they  both  laughed  at  the  formality. 

“  I  am  so  glad  you  were  able  to  come,  dearest! 
How  you  do  brighten  up  the  old  city !  ” 

“  Do  I?  I  felt  quite  lonely  until  you  came. 
Nothing  but  droves  of  men — and  all  staring.” 

“ It,s  your  dres8-” 


A  VISIT  TO  MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS.  177 


“  Oh,  thank  you,  sir!  ” 

“  Entirely  that  pretty  brown - ” 

“  Brown!  Fawn  colour.” 

“  Well,  that’s  brown.  Anyhow,  it  looks  charm¬ 
ing.  And  so  do  you — by  Jove!  you  do,  Maude. 
Come  this  way!  ” 

“  Where  are  we  going?  ” 

“  By  underground.  Here  we  are!  Two  sec¬ 
ond  singles.  Mark  Lane,  please!  Xo,  that’s  for 
the  West-End  trains.  Down  here!  Xext  train, 
the  man  says.” 

They  were  in  the  mephitic  cellar  with  the  two 
long  wooden  platforms  where  the  subterranean 
trains  land  or  load  their  freights.  A  strangling 
gas  tickled  their  throats  and  set  them  coughing. 
It  was  all  dank  and  dark  and  gloomy.  But  little 
youth  and  love  care  for  that !  They  were  bubbling 
over  with  the  happiness  of  this  abnormal  meeting. 
Both  talked  together  in  their  delight,  and  Maude 
patted  Frank’s  sleeve  with  every  remark.  They 
could  even  illuminate  all  that  was  around  them  by 
the  beauty  and  brightness  of  their  own  love.  It 
went  the  length  of  open  praise  for  their  abominable 
surroundings. 

“  Isn’t  it  grand  and  solemn?”  said  Maude. 
11  Look  at  the  black  shadows!  ” 

“  When  they  come  to  excavate  all  this  some 


178 


A  DUET. 


thousands  of  years  hence,  they  will  think  it  was 
constructed  by  a  race  of  giants/’  Frank  answered. 
“  The  modern  works  for  the  benefit  of  the  com¬ 
munity  are  really  far  greater  than  those  which 
sprang  from  the  caprice  of  kings.  The  London 
and  Northwestern  Railway  is  an  infinitely  grander 
thing  than  the  Pyramids.  Look  at  the  two  head¬ 
lights  in  the  dark!  ” 

Two  sullen  crimson  disks  glowed  in  the  black 
arch  of  the  tunnel.  With  a  menacing  and  sinister 
speed  they  grew  and  grew  until  roaring  they 
sprang  out  of  the  darkness,  and  the  long  dingy 
train,  with  a  whining  of  brakes,  drew  up  at  the 
platform. 

“  Here’s  one  nearly  empty,”  said  Frank,  with 
his  hand  on  the  handle. 

“  Don’t  you  think - ”  said  Maude. 

“  Yes,  I  do,”  cried  Frank. 

And  they  got  into  one  which  was  quite  empty. 

For  the  underground  railway  is  blessed  as  re¬ 
gards  privacy  above  all  other  lines',  and  where 
could  a  loving  couple  be  more  happy  who  have 
been  torn  apart  by  cruel  fate  for  seven  long  hours 
or  so?  It  was  with  a  groan  that  Frank  remarked 
that  they  had  reached  Mark  Lane. 

“  Bother!  ”  said  Maude,  and  wondered  if  there 
was  any  shop  near  where  she  could  buy  hairpins. 


A  VISIT  TO  MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


179 


As  every  lady  knows  or  will  know  there  is  a  very 
intimate  connection  between  hairpins  and  a  loving 
husband. 

“  Now,  Frank,  about  your  telegram - ” 

“  All  right,  dear.  Come  along  where  I  lead 
you,  and  you  will  understand  all  about  it.” 

They  passed  out  of  Mark  Lane  Station  and 
down  a  steep  and  narrow  street  to  the  right.  At 
the  bottom  lay  an  old  smoke-stained  church  with 
a  square  tower  and  a  small  open  churchyard  be¬ 
side  it. 

“  That’s  the  Church  of  St.  Olave,”  said  Frank. 
“  We  are  going  info  it.” 

lie  pushed  open  a  folding  oaken  door,  and  they 
found  themselves  inside  it.  Rows  of  modern  seats 
filled  the  body  of  it,  but  the  walls  and  windows 
gave  an  impression  of  great  antiquity.  The 
stained  glass,  especially  that  which  surmounted  the 
altar,  contained  those  rich,  satisfying  purples  and 
deep,  deep  crimsons  which  only  go  with  age.  It 
was  a  bright  and  yet  a  mellow  light,  falling  in 
patches  of  watery  colour  upon  the  brown  wood¬ 
work  and  the  gray  floors.  Here  and  there  upon 
the  walls  were  marble  inscriptions  in  the  Latin 
tongue,  with  pompous  allegorical  figures  with 
trumpets,  for  our  ancestors  blew  them  in  stone  as 
well  as  in  epitaphs  over  their  tombs.  They  loved 


180 


A  DUET. 


to  die,  as  they  had  lived,  with  dignity  and  with 
affectation.  White  statues  glimmered  in  the  shad¬ 
ows  of  the  corners.  As  Frank  and  his  wife  passed 
down  the  side  aisle,  their  steps  clanged  through 
the  empty  and  silent  church. 

“Here  he  is!  ”  said  Frank,  and  faced  to  the 
wall. 

He  was  looking  up  at  the  modem  representa¬ 
tion  of  a  gentleman  in  a  full  and  curly  wig.  It 
was  a  well-rounded  and  comely  face,  with  shrewd 
eyes  and  a  sensitive  mouth — the  face  of  a  man 
of  affairs,  and  a  good  fellow,  with  just  that  saving 
touch  of  sensuality  about  it  which  makes  an  ex¬ 
pression  human  and  lovable.  Underneath  was 
printed : 

Samuel  Pepys. 

Erected  by  public  subscription, 

1883. 

“  Oh,  isn’t  he  nice!  ”  said  Maude. 

“  He’s  not  a  bad-looking  chap,  is  he?  ” 

“  I  don’t  believe  that  man  ever  could  have 
struck  his  wife  or  kicked  the  maid.” 

“  That’s  calling  him  a  liar.” 

“  Oh,  dear,  I  forgot  that  he  said  so  himself. 
Then  I  suppose  he  must  have  done  it.  What  a 
pity  it  seems!  ” 


A  VISIT  TO  MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


181 


“  Cheer  up!  We  must  say  what  the  old 
heathen  lady  said  when  they  read  the  gospels  to 
her.” 

“  What  did  she  say?” 

“  She  said,  ‘  Well,  it  was  a  long  time  ago,  and 
we’ll  hope  that  it  wasn’t  true!  ’  ” 

“  O  Frank!  how  can  you  tell  such  stories  in 
a  church?  Do  you  really  suppose  that  Mr.  Pepys 
is  in  that  wall?  ” 

“  I  presume  that  the  monument  marks  the 
grave.” 

“  There’s  a  little  bit  of  plaster  loose.  Do  you 
think  I  might  take  it?  ” 

“  It  isn’t  quite  the  thing.” 

“  But  it  can’t  matter,  and  it  isn’t  wrong,  and 
we  are  quite  alone.”  She  picked  off  the  little  flake 
of  plaster,  and  her  heart  sprang  into  her  mouth 
as  she  did  so,  for  there  came  an  indignant  snort 
from  her  very  elbow,  and  there  was  a  queer  little 
smoke-dried,  black-dressed  person  who  seemed  to 
have  risen,  like  the  Eastern  genii  or  a  modern 
genius,  in  a  single  instant.  A  pair  of  black  list 
slippers  explained  the  silence  of  his  approach. 

“  Put  that  back,  young  laidy!  ”  said  he  se¬ 
verely. 

Poor  Maude  held  out  her  guilty  relic  on 
the  palm  of  her  white  glove.  “  I  am  so  sor- 


182 


A  DUET. 


ry,”  said  slie.  “  I  am  afraid  I  can  not  put  it 
back.” 

“  We’ll  ’ave  the  ’ole  cliurch  picked  to  pieces 
at  this  rate,”  said  the  clerk.  “  You  shouldn’t  ’ave 
done  it,  and  it  was  very  wrong.”  He  snorted  and 
shook  his  head. 

“  It’s  of  no  consequence,”  said  Frank.  “  The 
plaster  was  hanging,  and  must  have  fallen  in  any 
case.  Don’t  make  a  fuss  about  a  trifle.” 

The  clerk  looked  at  the  young  gentleman  and 
saw  defiance  in  one  of  his  eyes  and  half  a  crown 
in  the  other. 

“Well!  well!”  he  grumbled.  “It  shows  as 
the  young  lady  takes  an  interest,  and  that’s  more 
than  most.  Why,  sir,  if  you’ll  believe  me,  there’s 
not  one  in  a  hundred  that  comes  to  this  church 
that  ever  ’eard  of  Pepys.  ‘  Pepys !  ’  says  they. 
‘  Oos  Pepys?  ’  ‘  The  diarist,’  says  I.  ‘  Diarist!  ’ 

says  they.  ‘  Wot’s  a  diarist?’  I  could  sit  down 
sometimes  an’  cry.  But  maybe,  miss,  you  thought 
as  you  were  picking  that  plaster  off  ’is  grave?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  thought  so.” 

The  clerk  chuckled. 

“  Well,  it  ain’t  so.  I’ll  tell  vou  where  ’e  real- 
ly  lies  if  you’ll  promise  you  won’t  pick  another 
chunk  off  that.  Well,  then,  it’s  there,  beside 
the  communion.  I  saw  ’im  lyin’  there  with 


A  VISIT  TO  MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


18a 


these  very  eyes,  and  ’is  wife  in  the  coffin  beneath 

y  y 

nn. 

“  You  saw  him!  ” 

“  Yes,  sir,  I  saw  ’im,  an’  that’s  more  than  any 
livin’  man  could  say,  for  there  was  only  four  of 
us,  and  the  other  three  are  as  dead  as  Pepys  by 
now.” 

“  Oh,  do  tell  us  about  it!  ”  cried  Maude. 

“  Well,  it  was  like  this,  miss.  We  ’ad  to  ex¬ 
amine  to  see  ’ow  much  room  there  was  down  there, 
and  so  we  came  upon  them.” 

“  And  what  did  you  see?  ” 

“  Well,  miss,  ’is  coffin  lay  above  and  ’is  wife’s 
below,  as  might  be  expected,  seeing  that  she  died 
thirty  years  or  so  before  ’im.  The  coffins  was 
very  much  broken,  an’  we  could  see  ’im  as  clear 
as  I  can  see  you.  When  we  first  looked  in,  I  saw 
’im  lying  quite  plain — a  short,  thick  figure  of  a 
man,  with  ’is  ’ands  across  ’is  chest.  And  then 
just  as  we  looked  at  ’im  ’e  crumbled  in,  as  you 
might  say,  across  :is  breast  bone,  an’  just  quietly 
settled  down  into  a  ’uddle  of  dust.  It’s  a  way  they 
’as  when  the  fresh  air  strikes  ’em.  An’  she  the 
same,  an’  ’is  dust  just  fell  through  the  chinks  o’ 
the  wood  and  mixed  itself  with  ’ers.” 

“O  Frank!”  Maude’s  ready  tears  sprang  to 
her  eyes.  She  put  her  hand  upon  her  husband’s, 


184 


A  DUET. 


and  was  surprised  to  find  how  cold  it  was.  Women 
never  realize  that  the  male  sex  is  the  more  sensi¬ 
tive.  He  had  not  said  “  O  Maude!  ”  because  he 
could  not. 

“  They  used  some  powder  like  pepper  for  em¬ 
balmin’  in  those  days/’  said  the  clerk.  “  And  the 
vicar — it  was  in  old  Bellamy’s  time — ’e  took  a 
sniff  into  the  grave  an’  ’e  sneezed  an’  sneezed  till 
we  thought  we  should  ’ave  to  fetch  a  doctor.  ’Ave 
you  seen  Mrs.  Pepys’s  tomb?  ” 

“  Ho,  we  have  only  just  come.” 

“  That’s  it  on  the  left  of  the  communion.” 

“  With  the  woman  leaning  forward?  ” 

“  Yes,  sir.  That’s  Mrs.  Pepys  ’erself.” 

It  was  an  arch,  laughing  face,  the  face  of  a 
quite  young  woman ;  the  sculptor  had  depicted  her 
as  leaning  forward  in  an  animated  and  natural  at¬ 
titude.  Below  was  engraved: 

Obiit 

X®  Noyembris 
iEtatis  29 

Anno 

Conju  8ii  15 
Domini  1669. 

“  Poor  dear!  ”  whispered  Maude. 

“  It  was  hard  that  she  should  die  just  as  her 
husband  was  becoming  famous  and  successful,” 


A  VISIT  TO  MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS. 


185 


said  Frank.  “  She  who  had  washed  his  shirts  and 
made  up  the  coal  fires  when  they  lived  in  a  garret 
together.  What  a  pity  that  she  could  not  have  a 
good  time!  ” 

“  Ah,  well,  if  she  loved  him,  dear,  she  had  a 
good  time  in  the  garret.” 

Maude  was  leaning  forward  with  her  face 
raised  to  look  at  the  bust  of  the  dead  woman,  which 
also  leaned  forward  as  if  to  look  down  upon  her. 
A  pair  of  marble  skulls  flanked  the  lady’s  grave. 
A  red  glow  from  the  evening  sun  struck  through 
a  side  window  and  bathed  the  whole  group  in  its 
ruddy  light.  As  Frank,  standing  back  in  the 
shadow,  ran  his  eyes  from  the  face  of  the  dead 
young  wife  to  that  of  his  own  sweet  girlish  bride, 
with  those  sinister  skulls  between,  there  came  over 
him  like  a  wave  a  realization  of  the  horror  which 
lies  in  things,  the  grim  ending  of  the  passing 
pageant,  the  black  gloom  which  swallows  up  the 
never-ending  stream  of  life.  Will  the  spirit  wear 
better  than  the  body,  and,  if  not,  what  infernal 
practical  joke  is  this  to  which  we  are  subjected? 

“  It  will!  it  must!  ”  he  said. 

“  Why,  Frank — Frank,  dear,  what  is  the  mat¬ 
ter?  You  are  quite  pale.” 

“  Come  out  into  the  air,  Maude.  I  have  had 

enough  of  this  stuffy  old  church.” 

13 


186 


A  DUET. 


“  Stuffy!  ”  said  the  old  clerk.  “  Well,  we’ve 
’ad  the  lord  mayor  ’ere  at  least  once  a  year,  an’  ’e 
never  found  it  stuffy.  A  cleaner,  fresher  church 
you  won’t  find  in  the  city  of  London.  It’s  ’ad  its 
day  I’ll  allow.  There  was  a  time — and  I  can  re¬ 
member  it — when  folk  used  to  spend  their  money 
where  they  made  it,  and  the  plate  would  be  full 
of  paper  and  gold  where  now  we  find  it  ’ard  enough 
to  get  coppers.  That  was  fifty  year  ago,  when  I 
was  a  young  clerk.  You  might  not  think  it,  hut 
I’ve  seen  a  lord  mayor,  a  past  lord  mayor,  and  a 
lord  mayor  elect  of  the  city  of  London  all  sitting 
on  one  bench  in  this  very  church.  And  you  call 
it  stuffy!  ” 

Frank  soothed  the  wounded  feelings  of  the  old 
clerk,  and  explained  that  by  stuffy  he  meant  in¬ 
teresting.  He  also  shook  hands  with  him  in  a  pe¬ 
culiar  way  as  he  held  his  palm  upturned  in  the 
small  of  his  back.  Then  Maude  and  he  retraced 
their  steps  up  the  narrow  street,  which  is  called 
Seething  Lane. 

“  Poor  old  hoy!  What  was  it,  then?”  asked 
Maude,  looking  up  with  her  sympathetic  eyes.  It 
is  at  such  moments  that  a  man  realizes  what  the 
companionship  of  women  means.  The  clouds 
melted  before  the  sun. 

“  What  an  ass  I  was!  I  began  to  think  of  all 


A  VISIT  TO  MR.  SAMUEL  PEPYS.  187 


sorts  of  horrible  things.  Never  mind,  Maude! 
We  are  out  for  a  holiday.  Hang  the  future!  Let 
us  live  in  the  present.” 

“  I  always  do,”  said  Maude,  and  she  spoke  for 
her  sex. 

“Well,  what  now?  Buttered  toast  or  suede 

) 

gloves?  ” 

“  Business  first !  ”  said  Maude  primly,  and  so 
proceeded  to  save  her  sixpence  on  the  gloves.  As 
she  was  tempted, ,  however  (“  Such  a  civil,  oblig¬ 
ing  shopman,  Frank!  ”),  to  buy  four  yards  of  so- 
called  Astrakhan  trimming,  a  frill  of  torchon  lace, 
six  dear  little  festooned  handkerchiefs,  and  four 
pairs  of  open-work  stockings — none  of  which  were 
contemplated  when  she  entered  the  shop — -her  six¬ 
penny  saving  was  not  as  brilliant  a  piece  of  finance 
as  she  imagined. 

And  then  they  finished  their  excursion  in  the 
dark  wainscotted,  low-ceilinged  coffee  room  of  an 
old-fashioned  inn,  once  the  mother  of  many 
coaches,  but  now  barren  and  deserted,  but  with 
a  strange  cunning  in  the  matter  of  buttered  toast, 
which  had  come  down  from  more  prosperous  days. 
It  was  a  new  waiter  who  served  them,  and  he  im¬ 
agined  them  to  be  lovers,  and  scented  an  intrigue; 
but  when  they  called  for  a  second  plate  of  toast 
and  a  jug  of  boiling  water,  he  recognised  the 


188 


A  DUET. 


healthy  appetite  of  the  married.  And  then,  in¬ 
stead  of  going  home  like  a  good  little  couple, 
Maude  suddenly  got  it  into  her  head  that  it  would 
cheer  away  the  last  traces  of  Frank’s  gloom  if 
they  went  to  see  Charlie’s  Aunt  at  the  Globe. 
So  they  loitered  and  shopped  for  a  couple  of  hours, 
and  then  squeezed  into  the  back  of  the  pit,  and, 
wedged  in  among  honest  hearty  folk,  who  were 
not  ashamed  to  show  their  emotions,  they  laughed 
until  they  were  tired.  And  so  home,  as  their  friend 
Pepys  would  have  said,  after  such  a  day  as  comes 
into  the  memory,  shining  golden  among  the  drab, 
when  old  folk  look  back  and  think  of  the  dear 
dead  past.  May  you  and  I,  reader,  if  ever  we  also 
come  to  sit  in  our  final  armchairs  in  the  chimney 
corners,  have  many  such  to  which  our  minds  may 
turn,  sweet  and  innocent  and  fragrant,  to  cheer  us 
in  those  darksome  hours  to  come. 


XIV. 


TROUBLE. 

One  evening  Frank  came  liome  with  a  clouded 
face.  His  wife  said  nothing,  but  after  dinner  she 
sat  on  a  footstool  beside  his  chair  and  waited.  She 
knew  that  if  it  were  for  the  best  he  would  tell  her 
everything,  and  she  had  confidence  enough  in  his 
judgment  to  acquiesce  in  his  silence  if  he  thought 
it  best  to  be  silent.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was 
just  this  telling  her  which  made  his  trouble  hard 
to  bear.  And  yet  he  thought  it  wiser  to  tell. 

“  I’ve  had  something  to  worry  me,  dear.” 

“  Poor  old  boy!  I  know  you  have.  What 
was  it?  ” 

“  Why  should  I  bother  you  with  it?  ” 

“  A  nice  wife  I  should  he  if  I  shared  all  your 
joys  and  none  of  your  sorrows!  Anyhow,  I  had 
rather  share  sorrow  with  you  than  joy  with  any 
one  else.”  She  snuggled  her  head  up  against  his 
knee.  “  Tell  me  about  it,  Frank.” 

“  You  remember  my  telling  you  just  before 

our  marriage  that  I  was  surety  for  a  man?  ” 

189 


190 


A  DUET. 


“  I  remember  perfectly  well.” 

“  His  name  was  Farintosh.  He  was  an  insur¬ 
ance  agent,  and  I  became  surety  for  him  in  order 
to  save  his  situation.” 

“  Yes,  dear,  it  was  so  noble  of  you!  ” 

“  Well,  Maude,  he  was  on  the  platform  this 
morning,  and  when  he  saw  me  he  turned  on  his 
heel  and  hurried  out  of  the  station.  I  read  guilt 
in  his  eyes.  I  am  sure  that  his  accounts  are  wrong 
again.” 

“  Oh,  what  an  ungrateful  wretch!  ” 

“  Poor  devil !  I  dare  say  he  has  had  a  bad  time. 
But  I  was  a  fool  not  to  draw  out  of  that.  It  was 
all  very  well  when  I  was  a  bachelor.  But  here 
I  am  as  a  married  man  faced  with  an  indefinite 
liability,  and  nothing  to  meet  it  with.  I  don’t 
know  what  is  to  become  of  us,  Maude.” 

“  How  much  is  it,  dearest?  ” 

“  I  don’t  know.  That  is  the  worst  of  it.” 

“  But  surely  your  own  office  would  not  be  hard 
upon  you  ?  ” 

“It  is  not  my  own  office.  It  is  another  office 
— the  Hotspur.” 

“  Oh,  dear!  What  have  you  done  about  it, 
Prank?  ” 

“  I  called  at  their  office  in  my  lunch  hour,  and 
I  requested  them  to  send  down  an  accountant  to 


TROUBLE. 


191 


examine  Farintosh’s  books.  He  will  be  here  to¬ 
morrow  morning,  and  I  have  leave  of  absence  for 
the  day.” 

And  so  they  were  to  spend  an  evening  and  a 
night  without  knowing  whether  they  were  merely 
crippled  or  absolutely  ruined.  Frank’s  nature  was 
really  a  very  proud  one,  and  the  thought  of  failing 
in  his  engagements  wounded  his  self-respect  most 
deeply.  His  nerves  winced  and  quivered  before 
it.  But  her  sweet,  strong  soul  rose  high  above  all 
fear,  and  bore  him  up  with  her  into  the  serenity 
of  love  and  trust  and  confidence.  The  really  pre¬ 
cious  things,  the  things  of  the  spirit,  were  perma¬ 
nent,  and  could  not  be  lost.  What  matter  if  they 
lived  in  an  eight-roomed  villa  or  in  a  tent  out  on 
the  heath?  What  matter  if  they  had  two  servants, 
or  if  she  worked  for  him  herself?  All  this  was  the 
merest  trifle,  the  outside  of  life.  But  the  intimate 
things,  their  love,  their  trust,  their  pleasures  of 
mind  and  soul — these  could  not  be  taken  away 
from  them  while  they  had  life  to  enjoy  them.  And 
so  she  soothed  Frank  with  sweet  caresses  and  gen¬ 
tle  words  until  this  night  of  gloom  had  turned  to 
the  most  beautiful  of  all  his  life,  and  he  had 
learned  to  bless  the  misfortune  which  had  taught 
him  to  know  the  serene  courage  and  the  whole¬ 
hearted  devotion  which  can  only  be  felt,  like  the 


192 


A  DUET. 


scent  of  a  fragrant  leaf,  when  Fate  gives  us  a  crush 
between  its  iron  fingers. 

Shortly  after  breakfast  Mr.  Wingfield,  the  ac¬ 
countant  from  London,  arrived — a  tall,  gentleman¬ 
ly  man  with  a  formal  manner. 

“  I’m  sorry  about  this  business,  Mr.  Crosse,” 
said  he. 

Frank  made  a  grimace.  “  It  can’t  be  helped.” 

“  We  will  hope  that  the  amount  is  not  very 
serious.  We  have  warned  Mr.  Farintosh  that  his 
books  will  be  inspected  to-day.  When  you  are 
ready  we  will  go  round.” 

The  agent  lived  in  a  side  street  not  far 
off.  A  brass  plate  outside  a  small  brick  house 
marked  it  out  from  the  line  of  other  small  brick 
houses.  A  sad-faced  woman  opened  the  door,  and 
Farintosh  himself,  haggard  and  white,  was  seated 
among  his  ledgers  in  the  little  front  room.  A 
glance  at  the  man’s  helpless  face  turned  all  Frank’s 
resentment  to  pity. 

They  sat  down  at  the  table,  the  accountant  in 
the  centre,  Farintosh  on  the  right,  and  Frank  on 
the  left.  There  was  no  talk  save  an  occasional 
abrupt  question  and  answer.  For  two  hours  the 
swish  and  rustle  of  the  great  blue  pages  of  the 
ledgers  were  the  chief  sound,  with  the  scratching 
of  Mr.  Wingfield’s  pen  as  he  totalled  up  long  col- 


TROUBLE. 


193 


limns  of  figures.  Frank’s  heart  turned  to  water 
as  he  saw  the  huge  sums  which  had  passed  through 

t 

this  man’s  hands.  How  much  had  remained  there? 
His  whole  future  depended  upon  the  answer  to 
that  question.  How  prosaic  and  undramatic  are 
the  moments  in  which  a  modern  career  is  made  or 
marred!  In  this  obscure  battlefield  the  squire  no 
longer  receives  his  accolade  in  public  for  his  work 
well  done,  nor  do  we  see  the  butcher’s  cleaver  as 
it  hacks  off  the  knightly  spurs,  but  failure  and  suc¬ 
cess  come  strangely  and  stealthily,  determined  by 
trifles  and  devoid  of  dignity.  Here  was  the  crisis 
of  Frank’s  young  life  in  this  mean  front  room 
among  the  almanacs  and  the  account  books. 

“  Can  I  rely  upon  these  figures?  ”  asked  Wing¬ 
field  at  last. 

u  You  can,  sir.” 

u  In  that  case,  I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Crosse. 
I  can  only  find  n  deficiency  of  fifty  pounds.” 

Only  enough  to  swallow  the  whole  of  their 
little  savings,  which  they  had  so  carefully  invested ! 
However,  it  was  good  news,  and  Frank  shook  the 
proffered  hand  of  the  accountant. 

“  I  will  stay  for  another  hour  to  check  these 
figures,”  said  Wingfield.  “  But  there  is  no  need 
to  detain  you.” 

“  You  will  come  round  and  lunch  with  us?  ” 


194 


A  DUET. 


“  With  pleasure.” 

“Au  revoir,  then.”  Frank  ran  all  the  way 
home  and  burst  in  upon  his  wife.  “  It  is  not  so 
very  bad,  dear — only  fifty  pounds!  ”  They 
danced  about  in  their  joy  like  two  children. 

But  Wingfield  came  to  his  lunch  with  a  sol¬ 
emn  face. 

“  I  am  very  sorry  to  disappoint  you,”  he  said, 
“  but  the  matter  is  more  serious  than  I  thought. 


We  have  entered  some  sums  as  unpaid  which  he 
has  really  received,  but  the  receipts  for  which  he 
has  held  back.  They  amount  to  another  hundred 
pounds.” 

Maude  felt  inclined  to  cry  as  she  glanced  at 
Frank  and  saw  his  resolute  effort  to  look  uncon¬ 
cerned. 

“  Then  it’s  a  hundred  and  fifty?  ” 

“  Certainly  not  less.  I  have  marked  the  items 
down  upon  this  paper  for  your  inspection.” 

Frank  glanced  his  practised  eyes  over  the  re¬ 
sults  of  the  accountant’s  morning’s  work. 

“  You  have  credited  him  with  a  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds  in  the  bank,  I  see.” 

“  Yes,  his  bank-book  shows  a  balance  of  that 
amount.” 

“  When  was  it  made  out?  ” 

“  Last  Saturday.” 


TROUBLE. 


195 


“  He  may  have  drawn  it  since  then.” 

“  It  is  certainly  possible.” 

“  We  might  go  round  after  lunch  and  make 
sure.” 

“  Very  good.” 

“  And  in  any  case,  as  it  is  the  company’s 
money,  don’t  you  think  we  had  better  take  it  out 
of  his  hands?” 

“  Yes,  I  think  you  are  right.” 

It  was  a  miserable  meal,  and  they  were  all  glad 
when  it  was  finished.  Maude  drew  Frank  into  the 
other  room  before  he  started. 

“  I  could  not  let  you  go  without  that ,  dear¬ 
est.  Keep  a  brave  heart,  my  own  laddie,  for  I 
know  so  well  that  we  shall  come  through  it  all 
right.” 

So  Frank  set  out  with  a  higher  courage,  and 
they  both  returned  to  the  agent’s  house.  His  white 
face  turned  a  shade  whiter  when  he  understood 
their  errand. 

“  Is  this  necessary,  Mr.  Wingfield?  ”  he  plead¬ 
ed.  “  Won’t  you  take  my  word  for  this  money?  ” 

“  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  say  it,  sir,  but  we  have 
trusted  in  your  word  too  often.” 

“  But  the  money  is  there,  I  swear  it!  ” 

“  It  is  the  company’s  money,  and  we  must 
have  it.” 


196 


A  DUET. 


“  It  will  ruin  my  credit  locally  if  I  draw  out 
my  whole  account  under  compulsion.” 

“  Then  let  him  keep  ten  pounds  in,”  said 
Frank. 

Farintosh  agreed  with  an  ill  grace  to  the  com¬ 
promise,  and  they  all  started  off  for  the  bank. 
When  they  reached  the  door,  the  agent  turned 
upon  them  with  an  appealing  face. 

“  Don’t  come  in  with  me,  gentlemen!  I  could 
never  hold  up  my  head  again.” 

“  It  is  for  Mr.  Crosse  to  decide.” 

“  I  don’t  want  to  he  unreasonable,  Farintosh. 

# 

Go  in  alone  and  draw  the  money.” 

They  could  never  understand  why  he  begged 
for  that  extra  five  minutes.  Perhaps  it  was  that 
he  had  some  mad  hope  of  persuading  the  bank 
manager  to  allow  him  to  overdraw  to  that  amount. 
If  so,  the  refusal  was  a  curt  one,  for  he  reappeared 
with  a  ghastly  face  and  walked  up  to  Frank. 

“  I  may  as  well  confess  to  you,  Mr.  Crosse.  I 
have  nothing  in  the  bank.” 

Frank  whistled  and  turned  upon  his  heel.  He 
could  not  by  reproaches  add  to  the  wretched  man’s 
humiliation.  After  all,  he  had  himself  to  blame. 
He  had  incurred  a  risk  with  his  eyes  open,  and 
he  was  not  the  man  to  whine  now  that  the  thing 
had  gone  against  him.  Wingfield  walked  home 


TROUBLE. 


197 


witli  him  and  murmured  some  words  of  sympathy. 
At  the  gate  the  accountant  left  him  and  went  on 
to  the  station. 

So  their  liability  had  risen  from  fifty  to  two 
hundred  and  seventy  pounds.  Even  Maude  was  for 
an  instant  datmted  by  the  sum.  The  sale  of  their 
furniture  would  hardly  meet  it.  It  was  the  black¬ 
est  hour  of  their  lives,  and  yet  always  a  strange, 
sweet  undercurrent  of  joy  was  running  through 
it,  for  it  is  only  sorrow,  fairly  shared  and  bravely 
borne,  which  can  weld  two  human  souls  together. 

Dinner  was  over  when  there  came  a  ring  at 
the  bell. 

“  If  you  please,  sir,  Mr.  Farintosh  would  like 
to  see  you,”  said  the  maid  Jemima. 

“  Show  him  in  here.” 

“  Don’t  you  think,  Frank,  that  I  had  better 
go?” 

“  Ho,  I  don’t.  I  never  asked  him  to  come. 
If  he  comes,  let  him  face  us  both.  I  have  not 
made  much  of  my  dealings  with  him  alone.” 

He  was  shown  in,  downcast,  shifty-eyed,  and 
ill  at  ease.  He  laid  his  hat  upon  the  floor  and  crept 
humbly  toward  the  chair  which  Frank  pushed  to¬ 
ward  him. 

“  Well,  Farintosh?” 

“  Well,  Mr.  Crosse,  I  have  come  round  to  tell 


198 


A  DUET. 


you,  and  you  too,  missus,  the  sorrow  I  feel  that 
I  have  brought  this  trouble  upon  you.  I  hoped 
all  would  have  gone  right  after  that  last  time,  but 
I’ve  had  to  pay  up  back  debts,  and  that’s  what  has 
put  me  wrong.  I’ve  never  had  what  one  may  call 
a  fair  chance.  But  I’m  really  sorry,  sir,  that  you 
who  have,  as  one  might  say,  befriended  me,  should 
have  to  suffer  for  it  in  this  way.” 

“  Words  won’t  mend  it,  Farintosh.  I  only 
blame  you  for  not  coming  to  me  when  first  things 
began  to  go  wrong.” 

“  Well,  sir,  I  was  always  hoping  that  I  could 
turn  them  right  again,  so  as  you  wouldn’t  need 
to  he  troubled  at  all.  And  so  it  went  from  had 
to  worse  until  we  find  ourselves  here.  But  what 
I  wanted  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Crosse,  was  what  you 
meant  to  do  about  it?  ” 

Frank  writhed  before  this  home  question. 

“  Well,  I  suppose  I  am  responsible,”  said  he. 

“  You  mean  to  pay  the  money,  sir?  ” 

“  Well,  somebody  must  pay  it.” 

“  Do  you  remember  the  wording  of  the  bond, 
Mr.  Crosse?  ” 

“  Not  the  exact  wording.” 

“Well,  sir,  I  should  advise  you  to  get  your 
lawyer  to  read  it.  In  my  opinion,  sir,  you  are  not 
liable  at  all.” 


TROUBLE. 


199 


“  Not  liable!  ”  Frank  felt  as  if  bis  heart  had 
turned  suddenly  from  a  round  shot  to  an  air  bal¬ 
loon.  “  Why  not  liable?” 

“  You  were  a  little  slapdashy,  if  one  might  say 
so,  in  matters  of  business,  sir,  and  perhaps  you  read 
that  bond  less  carefully  than  I  did.  There  was  a 
clause  in  it  by  which  the  company  agreed  frequent¬ 
ly  and  periodically  to  audit  my  accounts,  so  as  to 
prevent  your  liability  being  at  any  time  a  very 
high  one.” 

“  So  there  was!  ”  cried  Frank.  “  Well,  didn’t 
they?  ” 

“  dSTo,  sir,  they  didn’t.” 

“  By  Jove!  Maude,  do  you  hear  that?  If 
that  is  right,  they  brought  their  own  misfortunes 
upon  themselves. — Do  you  mean  to  say  they  never 
audited  you  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  sir,  they  did  so  four  times.” 

“  In  how  long?  ” 

“  In  fourteen  months.” 

The  air  balloon  was  gone  and  the  cannon  ball 
back  in  its  place  once  more. 

“  That  will  be  held  to  exonerate  them.” 

“  No,  sir,  I  think  not.  ‘  Frequently  and  peri¬ 
odically  ’  does  not  mean  four  times  in  fourteen 
months.” 

“  A  jury  might  take  it  so.” 


200 


A  DUET. 


“  Consider,  sir,  that  the  object  was  that  your 
liability  should  be  limited.  Thousands  of  pounds 
was  passing  through  my  hands  in  that  time,  and 
therefore  these  four  audits  were,  as  one  might  say, 
insufficient  for  the  object  of  the  bond.” 

“  So  I  think !  ”  cried  Maude  with  conviction. 
“  Frank,  we’ll  have  the  best  advice  upon  the  sub¬ 
ject  to-morrow.” 

“  And  meanwhile,  Mr.  Crosse,”  said  Farin- 
tosh,  rising  from  his  chair,  “  I  am  your  witness, 
whether  the  company  prosecutes  me  or  not.  And 
I  hope  that  this  will  be  some  humble  atonement 
for  the  trouble  that  I  have  brought  you.” 

And  so  a  first  rift  of  light  began  to  shine  in 
the  dark  place.  But  it  was  not  broadened  by  the 
letter  which  he  found  waiting  upon  his  breakfast 
table: 

“  Re  FarintosVs  Accounts. 

“Hotspur  Insurance  Offici. 

“  Dear  Sir:  On  arriving  in  London,  I  came 
here  at  once  and  checked  Farintosh’s  accounts  from 
the  books  of  the  head  office.  I  am  sorry  to  say 
that  I  find  a  further  discrepancy  of  seventy  pounds. 
I  am  able,  however,  to  assure  you  that  we  have 
now  touched  bottom.  The  total  amount  is  three 
hundred  and  forty  pounds,  and  a  cheque  for  that 
sum  at  your  early  convenience  would  oblige  us,  as 


TROUBLE. 


201 


we  are  anxious  to  bring  so  unpleasant  a  business 
to  a  conclusion.  Yours  truly, 

“  James  Wingfield.” 

To  which  Frank  and  Maude  in  collaboration: 

“  Dear  Sir:  I  note  your  claim  for  three  hun¬ 
dred  and  forty  pounds  on  account  of  the  affairs  of 
your  agent  Farintosh.  I  am  advised,  however, 
that  there  have  been  certain  irregularities  in  the 
matter,  about  which  I  must  make  some  investiga¬ 
tion  before  paying  the  claim. 

“  Yours  truly, 

“  Frank  Crosse.” 

To  which  the  Hotspur  Insurance  Office: 

“  Sir:  Had  your  letter  been  a  plea  for  more 
time  to  fulfil  your  engagement,  we  should  have 
been  content  to  wait,  but,  since  you  appear  dis¬ 
posed  to  dispute  your  liability,  we  have  no  alterna¬ 
tive  but  to  take  immediate  steps  to  enforce  pay¬ 
ment.  Yours  truly, 

“  John  Waters,  Secretary” 

To  which  Frank  and  Maude: 

i 

“  Sir  :  My  solicitor,  A.  C.  R.  Owen,  of  14 
Shirley  Lane,  E.  C.,  will  be  happy  to  accept 
service.” 

14 


202 


A  DUET. 


Which  is  the  correct  legal  English  for  “  You 
may  go  to  the  devil!  ” 

But  this  is  an  anticipation.  In  the  meantime, 
having  received  the  original  letter  and  answered 
it,  Frank  went  up  to  town  as  usual,  while  Maude 
played  the  more  difficult  part  of  waiting  quietly 
at  home.  In  his  lunch  hour  Frank  went  to  see 
his  friend  and  solicitor,  who  in  turn  obtained 
leave  to  see  the  bond,  and  came  back  with  a  grave 
face. 

“  You  have  a  case,”  said  he,  “  but  by  no  means 
a  certainty.  It  all  depends  upon  how  the  judge 
might  read  the  document.  I  think  that  it  would 
strengthen  our  case  very  materially  if  we  had 
counsel’s  opinion.  I’ll  copy  the  bond  and  show  it 
to  Manners,  and  have  his  opinion  before  you  go 
back  to-night.” 

So  Frank  went  round  again  after  office  hours, 
and  found  Owen  waiting  in  very  low  spirits,  for 
their  relations  were  closer  than  those  of  mere  solici¬ 
tor  and  client. 

“  Very  sorry,”  said  he. 

“  Opinion  against  us?  ” 

“  Dead  against  us.” 

Frank  tried  to  look  as  if  he  didn’t  mind. 

i 

“  Let  me  see  it.” 

It  was  a  long  blue  document,  with  the  head- 


TROUBLE. 


203 


ing,  “  The  Hotspur  Insurance  Company  Limited 
vs.  Frank  Crosse.” 

“  I  have  perused  the  case  submitted  to  me  and 
the  papers  accompanying  the  same,”  said  the 
learned  counsel,  “  and  in  my  opinion  the  Hotspur 
Insurance  Company  Limited  are  entitled  to  re¬ 
cover  from  Mr.  Crosse  under  his  guarantee  the  sum 
of  three  hundred  and  forty  pounds,  being  moneys 
received  by  Mr.  Farintosh  and  not  paid  over  by 
him  to  the  said  company.”  There  was  a  great  deal 
more,  but  it  was  anticlimax. 

“  Well,  what  shall  we  do?  ”  asked  Frank  help¬ 
lessly.  The  British  law  makes  one  feel  so! 

“  Well,  I  should  stand  out  if  I  were  you. 
There  is  certainly  a  chance.” 

“  Look  here,  old  chap,”  said  Frank,  “  I  may 
as  well  be  honest  with  you.  If  this  thing  goes 
against  me,  I  am  stony  broke.  I  don’t  know  where 
your  costs  are  coming  from.” 

“  Don’t  bother  about  that,”  said  Owen  kindly. 
“  After  all,  Manners  is  not  infallible.  Let  us  have 
Holland,  and  see  what  he  can  make  of  it.” 

So  twenty-four  hours  later  Frank  found  Owen 
radiant  with  another  opinion  in  his  hand. 

“  Dead  for  us,  this  time!  Look  here!  ” 

And  he  read  out :  “  I  have  carefully  consid¬ 
ered  the  case  submitted  to  me  for  my  opinion 


204 


A  DUET. 


and  the  documents  sent  therewith.  In  my  opinion, 
the  Hotspur  Insurance  Office  Limited  are  not  en¬ 
titled  to  recover  against  Mr.  Crosse  the  sum  claimed 
by  them,  or  any  part  thereof,  as  there  has  been  a 
breach  on  their  part  of  an  essential  condition  of 
the  guarantee.” 

“  He  reads  4  frequently  and  periodically  1  as  we 
do,”  continued  Owen,  glancing  over  the  long  docu¬ 
ment,  “  and  he  is  very  clear  as  to  our  case.” 

“  Suppose  we  have  another,  and  try  the  best 
of  three?  ”  said  Frank. 

“  It’s  too  expensive  a  game.  Ho,  Holland  is  a 
sound  man,  and  his  opinion  would  weigh  with  any 
judge.  I  think  we  have  enough  to  go  on  with.” 

“  And  you  think  it  is  safe?  ” 

“  Ho,  no;  nothing  is  ever  safe  in  the  law.  But 
we  can  make  a  fight  of  it  now.” 

And  now  Frank  was  to  learn  what  it  meant 
to  be  entangled  in  an  intricate,  clumsy  old  machine, 
incredibly  cumbrous,  and  at  the  same  time  incredi¬ 
bly  powerful,  jolting  along  with  its  absurd  forms 
and  abominable  English  toward  an  end  which 
might  or  might  not  be  just,  but  was  most  certainly 
ruinously  expensive.  The  game  began  by  a  di¬ 
rect  letter  from  the  Queen  of  all  people,  an  hon¬ 
our  which  Frank  had  never  aspired  to  before,  and 
certainly  never  did  again. 


TROUBLE. 


205 


Victoria,  by  the  grace  of  God,  of  the  United 
Kingdom  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  Queen, 
Defender  of  the  Faith,  remarked  abruptly  to 
Frank  Crosse,  of  Woking,  in  the  county  of  Surrey  : 
“  We  command  you  that  within  eight  days  of  the 
service  of  this  writ  on  you,  inclusive  of  the  day 
of  such  service,  you  cause  an  appearance  to  be  en¬ 
tered  for  you  in  an  action  at  the  suit  of  the  Hotspur 
Insurance  Company  Limited.”  If  he  didn’t  do  so, 
her  Majesty  remarked  that  several  very  unpleasant 
things  might  occur,  and  Hardinge  Stanley,  Earl 
of  Halsbury,  corroborated  her  Majesty.  Maude 
was  frightened  to  death  when  she  saw  the  docu¬ 
ment,  and  felt  as  if  unawares  they  must  have 
butted  up  against  the  British  Constitution;  but 
Owen  explained  that  it  was  only  a  little  legal  fire¬ 
work,  which  meant  that  there  might  be  some  trou¬ 
ble  later. 

“  Well,  at  any  rate,”  said  Frank,  “  it  means 
that  in  eight  days  it  will  all  be  over.” 

Owen  laughed  heartily  at  the  remark. 

“  It  means,”  said  he,  “  that  in  eight  days  we 
must  promise  that  at  some  future  date  we  will 
begin  to  make  preparations  for  something  to  hap¬ 
pen  in  the  future.  That  is  about  the  meaning  of 
it.  All  you  can  do  now  is  to  be  perfectly  philo¬ 
sophic  and  leave  the  rest  to  me.” 


206 


A  DUET. 


But  how  is  a  man  with  a  capital  of  fifty  pounds 
going  to  be  philosophic  when  he  is  fighting  an  op¬ 
ponent  whose  assets,  as  a  certain  hoarding  near 
Clapham  Junction  told  him  every  morning,  ex¬ 
ceeded  three  millions  of  pounds?  He  treated  it 
lightly  to  Maude  and  she  to  him,  but  each  suffered 
horribly,  and  each  was  well  aware  of  the  other’s 
real  feelings.  Sometimes  there  was  a  lull,  and  they 
could  almost  believe  that  the  whole  thing  was  over. 
And  then  the  old  machine  gave  a  creak,  and  the 
rusty  cog-wheels  took  one  more  turn,  and  they  both 
felt  the  horrid  thing  which  held  them. 

First  of  all  they  had  to  enter  appearances,  which 
meant  that  they  would  dispute  the  action.  Then 
the  other  side  had  to  make  an  affidavit  verifying 
their  claim.  Then  a  master  had  to  pronounce 
whether  the  action  should  be  treated  offhand  or 
whether  he  would  listen  to  what  they  had  to  say 
about  it.  He  decided  to  listen  to  what  was  to  be 
said.  Then  each  side  claimed  to  see  the  other’s 
documents — “  discovery,”  they  called  it,  as  if  the 
documents  were  concealed  and  they  had  to  hunt 
for  them  stealthily  with  lanterns.  Then  each  made 
remarks  about  the  other’s  documents,  and  claimed 
to  see  the  remarks  so  made.  Then  the  lawyers  of 
the  company  made  a  statement  of  their  claim,  and 
when  she  read  it  Maude  burst  into  tears,  and  said 


TROUBLE. 


207 


that  it  was  all  over  and  they  must  make  the  best 
of  it,  and  she  would  never  forgive  herself  for  that 
new  dress  in  the  spring.  And  then  Frank’s  lawyer 
drew  up  a  defence,  and  when  Frank  heard  it  he 
said:  “  Why,  what  a  silly  business  it  seems!  They 
have  not  got  a  leg  to  stand  upon.”  And  so,  after 
all  these  flourishes  and  prancings,  the  two  parties 
did  actually  begin  to  show  signs  of  coming  to  a 
hearing,  after  all,  and  a  day  was  fixed  for  the  trial. 
By  a  coincidence  it  was  Frank’s  birthday.  “  There’s 
a  good  omen!  ”  cried  Maude. 

The  first  herald  of  the  approaching  conflict  was 
a  seedy  person  who  thrust  a  paper  into  Frank’s 
hand  as  he  emerged  from  the  Lindens  in  the  morn¬ 
ing.  It  was  another  letter  from  her  Majesty,  in 
which  subpoena  (her  Majesty  has  not  a  gracious 
way  of  putting  things  in  these  documents)  Mr. 
Frank  Crosse  had  “  to  attend  at  the  Boval  Courts 

C/ 

of  Justice,  Strand,  at  the  sittings  of  the  Queen’s 
Bench  Division  of  Our  High  Court  of  Justice,  to 
give  evidence  on  behalf  of  the  Hotspur  Company.” 

This  seemed  to  Frank  to  be  a  most  unexpected 
and  fearsome  stroke,  but  Owen  merely  laughed. 

“  That  is  mere  bluff,”  said  he.  “  It  makes  me 
think  that  they  are  weakening.  They  want  to 
frighten  you.” 

“  They  did,”  said  Frank. 


208 


A  DUET. 


“  Two  can  play  at  that  game.  We  must  keep 
a  bold  front.” 

a  What  do  you  mean  to  do?  ” 
u  To  subpoena  all  their  crowd.” 

“  Capital!  ”  cried  Frank.  So  a  clerk  was  sent 
across  to  the  Hotspur  Office  with  a  whole  bundle 
of  subpoenas,  and  served  them  liberally  out.  And 
in  two  days’  time  was  the  day  of  battle. 


XV. 


A  KESCUE. 

As  tlie  day  fixed  for  the  hearing  drew  near, 
Enin  lived  with  them  by  day  and  slept  with  them 
by  night.  Its  dark  shadow  covered  their  lives, 
and  they  moved  in  the  gloom  of  its  presence.  If 
the  trial  went  against  them — and  Owen  in  his  most 
hopeful  moods  did  not  disguise  from  them  that  it 
might — they  would  have  to  pay  the  double  costs 
as  well  as  the  original  claim.  All  that  they  pos¬ 
sessed  would  not  cover  it.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
they  won,  this  rich  company  might  carry  the  mat¬ 
ter  to'  a  higher  appeal  court,  and  so  involve  them 
in  a  fresh  succession  of  anxieties  and  expenses.  Do 
what  they  would,  there  was  always  danger.  Frank 
said  little,  and  he  slept  little  also. 

One  night,  just  before  the  trial,  Wingfield,  the 
accountant  of  the  society,  came  down  to  Woking. 
He  had  managed  the  case  all  through  for  the  di¬ 
rectors.  His  visit  was  a  sort  of  ultimatum. 

a  We  are  still  ready  to  pay  our  own  law  costs,” 

said  he,  “  if  you  will  allow  the  original  claim.” 

209 


210 


A  DUET. 


“  I  can’t  do  that,”  said  Frank  doggedly. 

“  The  costs  are  piling  up  at  a  furious  rate,  and 
some  one  will  have  to  pay  them.” 

“  I  hope  that  it  will  be  you.” 

“  Well,  don’t  say  afterward  that  I  did  not  warn 
you.  My  dear  Crosse,  I  assure  you  that  you  are 
being  misled,  and  that  you  have  not  really  got  a 
leg  to  stand  upon.” 

“  That’s  what  the  trial  is  about,”  said  Frank. 

He  kept  a  bold  face  to  the  enemy,  but  after 
Wingfield’s  departure  Maude  saw  that  his  confi¬ 
dence  was  greatly  shaken. 

“  He  seemed  very  sure  of  their  case,”  said  he. 
u  He  would  not  speak  like  that  if  he  did  not  know.” 

But  Maude  took  quite  another  view. 

“  If  they  know  that  they  can  recover  their 
money  in  court,  why  should  they  send  Mr.  Wing¬ 
field  down  in  this  way?  ” 

“  He  is  such  a  good  chap — he  wants  to  save  us 
expense.” 

Maude  was  less  trusting. 

“  He  is  doing  the  best  for  his  own  side,”  said 
she.  “  It  is  his  duty,  and  we  can’t  blame  him. 
But  if  he  thought  it  best  to  get  behind  his  own 
lawyers  and  come  down  here,  then  he  must  have 
some  doubts  about  going  into  court.  Perhaps  he 
would  be  willing  t'o  consider  some  compromise.” 


A  RESCUE. 


211 


But  Frank  only  sliook  his  head. 

“  We  have  drawn  the  cork,  and  we  must  drink 
the  wine,”  said  he.  “  We  have  gone  too  far  to 
stop.  Any  compromise  which  they  would  accept 
would  be  as  much  out  of  our  power  to  pay  as  the 
whole  sum  would  be,  and  so  we  may  just  as  well 
see  it  through.”  But  for  once  Maude  did  not 
take  his  opinion  as  final,  but  lay  awake  all  night 
and  thought  it  over.  She  had  determined  to  begin 
acting  upon  her  own  account,  and  she  was  so  eager 
to  try  what  she  could  do  that  she  lay  longing  for 
the  morning  to  break.  When  she  came  down  to 
breakfast  her  plan  of  campaign  was  ready. 

“  I  am  coming  up  to  town  with  you,  Frank.” 

“  Delighted  to  hear  it,  dear.”  When  she  had 
shopping  to  do  she  frequently  went  up  with  hint, 
so  it  did  not  surprise  him.  What  would  have  sur¬ 
prised  him  was  to  know  that  she  had  despatched 
three  telegrams  by  means  of  Jemima  before  he 
was  up. 

“  To  John  Selby,  53  Fenchurch  Street  E.  C.  ; 

“  Will  call  eleven  o’clock.  Important  busi¬ 
ness.  Matjde.” 

*'  To  Lieutenant  Selby s  the  Depot ,  Canterbury  : 

“  Please  come  up  next  train.  Meet  me  Fen¬ 
church  Street  eleven  thirty.  Important. 

“  Maude.” 


212 


A  DUET. 


“  To  Owen ,  14.  Shirley  Lane  E.  G. : 

“  Will  call  twelve  o’clock.  Important. 

“  Mrs.  Crosse.” 

So  she  had  opened  her  campaign. 

“  By  the  way,  Frank,”  said  she,  as  they  trav¬ 
elled  up  together,  “  to-morrow  is  your  birthda}r.” 

“  Yes,  dear,  it  is,”  he  answered  lugubriously. 

“  Dear  me!  What  shall  I  give  my  boy  for 
a  birthday  present?  Nothing  you  particularly 
want?  ” 

“  I  have  all  I  want,”  said  he,  looking  at 

her. 

“  Oh,  but  I  think  I  could  find  something!  I 
must  look  round  when  I  am  in  town.” 

She  began  her  looking  round  by  a  visit  to  her 
father  in  Fenchurch  Street.  It  was  something 
new  for  him  to  get  telegrams  from  Maude  upon 
business,  and  he  was  very  much  surprised. 

“  Looking  remarkably  well,  my  dear.  Your 
appearance  is  a  certificate  of  character  to  your  hus¬ 
band.  Well,  and  how  is  all  at  Woking?  I  hope 
the  second  cook  proved  to  be  a  success.” 

But  Maude  was  not  there  for  small  talk. 

“  Dear  dad,”  said  she,  “  I  want  you  to  stand 
by  me,  for  I  am  in  trouble.  Now,  my  dear  good 
dad,  please  see  things  from  my  point  of  view,  and 
don’t  make  objections,  and  do  exactly  what  I  ask 


A  RESCUE. 


213 


you.”  She  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck  and 
gave  him  a  hearty  squeeze. 

“  Now  I  call  that  exerting  undue  pressure,” 
said  he,  extricating  his  white  head.  “  If  this  sort 
of  thing  is  allowed  in  the  city  of  London,  there  is 
an  end  of  all  business.”  However,  his  eyes  twin¬ 
kled  and  looked  as  if  he  liked  it.  “  How,  madame, 
what  can  I  do  for  you?  ” 

“  I’m  going  to  be  perfectly  businesslike,”  said 
she,  and  gave  him  another  squeeze  before  sitting 
down.  “  Look  here,  dad!  You  give  me  an  in¬ 
come  of  fifty  pounds  a  year,  don’t  you?  ” 

( ‘  My  dear  girl,  I  can’t  raise  it.  Jack’s  ex¬ 
penses  in  the  Hussars - ” 

“  I  don’t  want  you  to  raise  it.” 

“  What  do  you  want?  ” 

“  I  seem  to  remember,  dad,  that  you  told  me 
that  this  fifty  pounds  was  the  interest  on  a  thou¬ 
sand  pounds  which  was  invested  for  me.” 

“  So  it  is — five-per-cent  debentures.” 

“  Well,  dad,  if  I  were  content  with  an  income 
of  twenty-five  pounds  a  year  instead  of  fifty  pounds 
then  I  could  take  five  hundred  pounds  out  of  my 
money  and  nobody  would  be  the  worse.” 

“  Except  yourself.” 

Maude  laughed  at  that. 

“  I  want  the  use  of  the  money  just  for  one 


214 


A  DUET. 


day.  I — certainly  won’t  want  it  all.  I  just  want 
to  feel  that  I  have  as  much  as  that  in  case  I  need 
it.  Now,  my  deal*  old  daddy,  do  please  not  ask 
any  questions,  but  be  very  nice  and  good  and  tell 
me  how  I  can  get  these  five  hundred  pounds.” 

“  And  you  won’t  tell  me  why  you  want  them?  ” 

“  I  had  rather  not — but  I  will,  if  you  insist.” 

Old  Selby  looked  into  the  brave,  clear  eyes  of 
his  daughter,  and  he  did  not  insist. 

“  Look  here!  You’ve  got  your  own  little 
banking  account,  have  you  not?” 

“  Yes,  dad.” 

“  That’s  right.  Never  mix  it  up  with  your 
husband’s.”  He  scribbled  a  cheque.  “  Pay  that 
in.  It  is  for  five  hundred  pounds.  I  will  sell  half 
your  debentures  and  charge  you  with  brokerage. 
I  believe  in  strict  business  between  relatives. 
When  you  pay  back  the  five  hundred  pounds  your 
allowance  will  be  fifty  a  year  once  more.” 

Maude  then  and  there  indorsed  the  cheque  and 
posted  it  to  her  bank.  Then  with  a  final  embrace 
to  her  father  she  hastened  out  to  further  victories. 
Jack  Selby  was  smoking  a  cigarette  upon  the  door¬ 
step. 

“  Hullo,  Maude!  Calling  up  the  reserves? 
What’s  the  matter?  Jolly  lucky  it  wasn’t  my  day 
on  duty!  You  girls  think  a  soldier  has  nothing 


A  RESCUE. 


215 


to  do.  It  was  so  once,  but  we  are  all  scientific 
blokes  now.  Ho,  thank  you,  I  won’t  see  the  dad! 
He’d  think  I  had  come  for  money,  and  it  would 
upset  him  for  the  day.” 

Maude  took  her  brother  in  the  cab  with  her 
and  told  him  the  whole  story  of  Frank’s  misfor¬ 
tune,  with  some,  account  of  her  own  intentions. 
Jack  was  vastly  interested. 

“  What  did  dad  say  about  it?  ” 

“  I  didn’t  tell  him.  I  thought  Frank  would 
rather  not.” 

“  Quite  right!  He  won’t  mind  me.  He  knows 
I’m  a  bit  of  a  business  man  myself.  Only  signed 
a  paper  once  in  my  life,  and  quite  a  small  paper, 
too,  and  I  haven’t  heard  the  last  of  it  yet.  The 
thing  wasn’t  much  bigger  than  a  postcard,  but  the 
fuss  those  people  made  afterward !  I  suppose 
they’ve  been  worrying  Frank?  ” 

“  We  have  had  no  peace  for  months.” 

“  Worry  is  bad  for  the  young.  But  he  should 
not  mind.  He  should  go  on  fizzing  like  I  did. 
How  we’ll  put  this  thing  through  together,  Maude. 
I  see  your  line,  and  I’ll  ride  it  with  you.” 

They  found  Mr.  Owen  at  home,  and  Maude 
did  the  talking. 

“  I  am  convinced,  Mr.  Owen,  that  they  don’t 
want  to  go  into  court.  Mr.  Wingfield  coming  down 


216 


A  DUET. 


like  that  proves  it.  My  husband  is  too  proud  to 
bargain  with  them,  but  I  have  no  scruples.  Don’t 
you  think  that  I  might  go  to  Mr.  Wingfield  myself 
and  pay  the  three  hundred  and  forty  pounds,  and 
so  have  done  with  the  worry  forever?  ” 

“  Speaking  as  a  lawyer,”  said  Owen,  “  I  think 
that  it  is  very  irregular.  Speaking  as  a  man,  I 
think  no  harm  could  come  of  it.  But  I  should 
not  like  you  to  offer  the  whole  sum.  Simply  say 
that  you  are  prepared  for  a  reasonable  compro¬ 
mise,  and  ask  them  to  suggest  what  is  the  lowest 
sum  which  the  office  would  accept  to  close  the  busi¬ 
ness.” 

“  You  leave  it  with  me,”  said  Jack.  “  I  am 
seeing  her  through.'  I’ll  keep  her  on  the  rails.  I 
am  Ho.  1,  Class  A,  at  business.  We’ll  take  ’em 
up  one  hole  in  the  curb  if  they  try  any  games  with 
us!  Come  on,  Maude,  and  get  it  over!  ” 

He  was  an  excellent  companion  for  her,  for 
his  buoyancy  turned  the  whole  thing  into  fun. 
She  could  not  take  it  too  seriously  in  his  company. 
They  called  at  the  Hotspur  office  and  asked  to  see 
Mr.  Wingfield.  He  was  engaged,  but  Mr.  Waters, 
the  secretary,  a  very  fat,  pompous  man,  came  into 
them. 

“  I  am  very  sorry,”  said  he,  “  very  sorry,  in¬ 
deed,  Mrs.  Crosse,  but  it  is  too  late  for  any  com- 


A  RESCUE. 


21T 


promise  of  the  sort.  We  have  our  costs  to  consider, 
and  there  is  no  alternative  but  for  the  case  to  go 
into  court/7 

Poor  Maude  nearly  burst  into  tears. 

“  But  suppose  that  we  were  to  offer - 77 

“  To  give  you  an  hour  to  think  it  over?  77  eried 
Jack. 

Mr.  Waters  shook  his  head  despondently, 

“  I  do  not  think  that  we  should  alter  our  de¬ 
cision.  However,  Mr.  Wingfield  will  be  here  pres¬ 
ently,  and  he  will  of  course  listen  to  any  represen¬ 
tations  which  you  may  have  to  make.  In  the  mean¬ 
time  you  must  excuse  me,  as  I  have  matters  of  im¬ 
portance  to  attend  to.” 

“  Why,  Maude,  you  little  Juggins,77  cried  Jack 
when  the  door  was  shut,  “  you  were  just  going  to 
offer  to  pay  their  costs!  I  only  just  headed  you 
off  in  time.77 

“  Well,  I  was  going  to  inquire  about  it.77 

“  Great  Scott!  it7s  lucky  you7ve  got  a  business 
man  at  your  elbow!  Couldn’t  you  see  that  he  wa» 
only  bluffing? 77 

“  How  do  you  know,  Jack? 77 

“  It  was  shining  all  over  him.  Do  you  sup¬ 
pose  a  man  who  has  bought  as  many  hairiea  as  I 
have  can’t  tell  when  a  dealer  is  bluffing?  He  was 

piling  it  on  so  that  when  the  next  Christmas  tree 

15 


r 


218 


A  DUET. 


comes  along  lie  may  find  a  soft  job  waiting  for 
him.  I  tell  you  you  want  a  friendly  native,  like 
me,  when  you  get  into  this  kind  of  country.  Now 
ride  this  one  on  the  curb,  and  don’t  let  him  have 
his  head  for  a  moment.” 

Mr.  Wingfield  had  entered,  and  his  manner 
was  very  different  to  that  of  the  secretary.  He 
had  great  sympathy  with  the  Crosses,  and  no  desire 
to  wash  the  company’s  dirty  linen  in  public.  He 
was  therefore  more  anxious  than  he  dared  to  show 
to  come  to  some  arrangement. 

“  It  is  rather  irregular  for  me  to  see  you.  I 
should  refer  you  to  our  solicitors,”  said  he. 

u  Well,  we  saw  you  when  you  came  to  Wo¬ 
king,”  said  Maude.  “  I  believe  that  we  are  much 
more  likely  to  come  to  an  arrangement  if  we  talk 
it  over  ourselves.” 

“  I  am  sure  I  earnestly  hope  so,”  Wingfield 
answered.  “  I  shall  be  delighted  to  listen  to  any¬ 
thing  which  you  may  suggest.  Do  you  in  the  first 
place  admit  your  liability?  ” 

“  To  some  extent,”  said  Maude,  “  if  the  com¬ 
pany  will  admit  that  they  are  in  the  wrong  also.” 

“  Well,  we  may  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  we  wish 
the  books  had  been  inspected  more  often,  and  that 
we  regret  our  misplaced  confidence  in  our  agent. 
That  should  satisfy  you,  Mrs.  Crosse.  And  now 


A  RESCUE. 


219 


that  you  admit  some  liability,  that  is  a  great  step 
in  advance.  We  have  no  desire  to  be  unreasonable, 
but  as  long  as  no  liability  was  admitted  we  had  no 
course  open  to  us  but  litigation.  We  now  come  to 
the  crucial  point,  which  is,  how  much  liability 
should  fall  upon  you.  My  own  idea  is  that  each 
should  pay  their  own  costs,  and  that  you  should  in 
addition  pay  over  to  the  company - ” 

“  Forty  pounds,”  said  Jack  firmly. 

Maude  expected  Mr.  Wingfield  to  rise  up  and 
leave  the  room.  As  he  did  not  do  so,  nor  show 
any  signs  of  violence,  she  said,  “  Yes,  forty 
pounds.” 

He  shook  his  head. 

“  Dear  me,  Mrs.  Crosse,  this  is  a  very  small 
sum.” 

“  Forty  pounds  is  our  offer,”  said  Jack. 

“  But  on  what  is  this  offer  based?  ” 

“  We  have  worked  it  out,”  said  Jack,  “  and  we 
find  that  forty  pounds  is  right.” 

Mr.  Wingfield  rose  from  his  chair. 

“  Well,”  said  he,  “  of  course,  any  offer  is  better 
than  no  offer.  I  can  not  say  what  view  the  di¬ 
rectors  may  take  of  this  proposal,  but  they  will 
hold  a  board  meeting  this  afternoon  and  I  will  lay 
it  before  them.” 

“  And  when  shall  we  know  ?  ” 


220 


A  DUET. 


“  I  could  send  you  round  a  line  by  hand  to 
your  solicitors.” 

“  jSTo  burry  about  it!  Quite  at  your  own  con¬ 
venience!  ”  said  Jack.  When  he  got  outside,  in 
the  privacy  of  their  hansom,  he  was  convulsed  with 
the  sense  of  his  own  achievements. 

“  Class  A,  Ho.  1,  and  mentioned  at  the  Agri¬ 
cultural  Hall,”  he  cried,  hugging  himself  in  his 
delight.  His  sister  hugged  him  also,  so  he  was  a 
much  embraced  young  man.  “  Am  I  not  a  man  of 
business,  Maude?  You  can’t  buy  ’em;  you  must 
breed  ’em!  One  shilling  with  the  basket.  I  shook 
him  in  the  first  round,  and  he  never  rallied  after.” 

“  You  are  a  dear  good  boy!  You  did  splen¬ 
didly!” 

“  That’s  the  way  to  handle  ’em.  He  saw  that 
I  was  a  real  fizzer  and  full  of  blood.  One  business 
man  can  tell  another  at  a  glance.” 

Maude  laughed,  for  J ack  with  his  cavalry  swag¬ 
ger,  and  a  white  weal  all  round  his  sunburned  face 
to  show  where  his  chin  strap  hung,  looked  the  most 
unbusinesslike  of  mortals. 

“  Why  did  you  offer  forty  pounds?  ”  she  asked. 

“  Well,  you  have  to  begin  somewhere.” 

“  But  why  fortv?  ” 

“  Because  it  is  what  we  offer  when  we  are  buv- 
ing  the  hairies — troopers’  chargers,  you  know.  It’s 


A  RESCUE. 


221 


a  great  thing  to  have  a  fixed  rule  in  business.  I 
never  go  higher  than  forty — rule  one,  section  one, 
and  no  exceptions  in  the  margin.” 

They  lunched  together  at  the  Holborn,  and 
Jack  took  Maude  afterward  to  what  he  called  “  a 
real  good  show,”  which  proved  to  be  a  horse  sale 
at  Tattersall’s.  Then  they  drove  back  to  the  law¬ 
yer’s,  and  there  they  found  a  letter  waiting  ad¬ 
dressed  to  Mrs.  Crosse.  Maude  tore  it  open. 

“  Dear  Mrs.  Crosse,”  said  this  delightful  note, 
“  I  am  happy  to  be  able  to  inform  you  that  the 
directors  have  decided  to  stop  the  legal  proceedings 
and  to  accept  your  offer  of  forty  pounds  in  full  sat¬ 
isfaction  of  all  claims  due  against  your  husband.” 

Maude,  Jack,  and  the  good  Owen  performed 
a  triumphant  pas  dc  trois. 

“  You  have  done  splendidly,  Mrs.  Crosse,  splen¬ 
didly!  ”  cried  Owen.  “  I  never  heard  a  better 
day’s  work  in  my  life.  Now,  if  you  will  give  me 
your  cheque  and  wait  here,  I  will  go  over  and  settle 
everything.” 

“  And  please  bring  the  bond  back  with  you,” 
said  Maude. 

So  it  was  that  Frank,  coming  down  upon  the 
morning  of  his  birthday,  perceived  a  pretty  silver 
cigarette  box  laid  in  front  of  his  plate. 


222 


A  DUET. 


a  Is  this  for  me,  my  darling?  ” 

“  Yes,  Frank,  a  wee  present  from  your  wife.” 
“  How  sweet  of  you!  I  never  saw  such  a  lovely 
case.  Why,  there’s  something  inside  it!  ” 

“  Cigarettes,  I  suppose.” 

“  Ho,  it  is  a  paper  of  some  kind.  ‘  Hotspur 
Insurance  Company!  9  Good  Lord!  I  never  seem 
for  one  instant  to  he  able  to  shake  that  infernal 
thing  off!  How  on  earth  did  it  get  in  there? 
What’s  this?  ‘  I  hereby  guarantee  to  you — ’ 
What’s  this?  Maude,  Maude,  what  have  you  been 
doing?  ” 

“  Dear  old  boy!  ”  she  cried,  as  she  put  her 
arms  round  him — “  dear  old  boy!  Oh,  I  do  feel 
so  happy!  ” 


XVI. 


THE  BROWNING  SOCIETY. 

It  all  began  from  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer,  the 
smart  little  up-to-date  wife  of  the  solicitor,  saying 
to  Mrs.  Beecher,  the  young  bride  of  the  banker, 
that  in  a  place  like  Woking  it  was  very  hard  to  get 
any  mental  friction  or  to  escape  from  the  same 
eternal  grooves  of  thought  and  conversation.  The 
same  idea,  it  seemed,  had  occurred  to  Mrs.  Beecher, 
fortified  by  a  remark  from  the  Lady’s  Journal,  that 
an  internal  intellectual  life  was  the  surest  method 
by  which  a  woman  could  preserve  her  youth.  She 
turned  up  the  article — for  the  conversation  oc¬ 
curred  in  her  drawing-room — and  she  read  ex¬ 
tracts  from  it.  “  Shakespeare  as  a  Cosmetic  ”  was 
the  title.  Maude  was  very  much  struck,  and  be¬ 
fore  they  separated  they  had  formed  themselves 
into  a  literary  society,  which  should  meet  and  dis¬ 
cuss  classical  authors  every  Wednesday  afternoon 
at  each  other’s  houses.  That  one  hour  of  concen¬ 
trated  thought  and  lofty  impulse  would  give  a 

223 


224 


A  DUET. 


dignity  and  a  tone  to  the  whole  dull  provincial 
week. 

What  should  they  read?  It  was  well  that  they 
should  decide  it  before  they  separated,  so  as  to  start 
fair  upon  the  next  Wednesday.  Maude  suggested 
Shakespeare,  but  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer  thought 
that  a  good  deal  of  it  was  improper. 

“  Does  it  matter?  ”  said  Mrs.  Beecher.  “  We 
are  all  married.” 

“  Still,  I  don’t  think  it  would  be  quite  nice,” 
said  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer.  She  belonged  to  the 
extreme  right  on  questions  of  propriety. 

“  But  surely  Mr.  Bowdler  made  Shakespeare 
quite  respectable,”  Mrs.  Beecher  argued. 

“  He  did  his  work  very  carelessly.  He  left  in 
much  that  might, be  dispensed  with,  and  he  omitted 
a  good  deal  which  was  quite  innocent.” 

“  How  do  you  know?  ” 

“  Because  I  once  got  two  copies  and  read  all 
the  omissions.” 

“  Why  did  you  do  that?”  asked  Maude  mis¬ 
chievously. 

“  Because  I  wanted  to  make  sure  that  they  had 
been  omitted,”  said  Mrs.  Hunt  severely. 

Maude’s  face  was  suddenly  transformed  into 
the  crown  of  a  brown  straw  hat  with  a  waving 
clump  of  marguerites.  Mrs.  Beecher  stooped  and 


THE  BROWNING  SOCIETY. 


225 


picked  an  invisible  hairpin  out  of  the  rug.  Mrs. 
Hunt  Mortimer  continued: 

“  There  is  Byron,  of  course.  But  he  is  so  very 
suggestive.  There  are  passages  in  his  works - ” 

“  I  could  never  see  any  harm  in  them/’  said 
Maude. 

“  That  is  because  you  did  not  know  where  to 
look,”  said  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer.  “  If  you  have 
a  copy  in  the  house,  Mrs.  Beecher,  I  will  under¬ 
take  to  make  it  abundantly  clear  to  you  that  he 
is  to  be  eschewed  by  those  who  wish  to  keep  their 
thoughts  unsullied.  Hot?  I  fancy  that  even 
quoting  from  memory  I  could  convince  you  that 
it  is  better  to  avoid  him.” 

“  Pass  Byron,”  said  Mrs.  Beecher,  who  was  a 
very  pretty  little  kittenish  person,  with  no  appar¬ 
ent  need  of  any  cosmetics,  literary  or  otherwise. 
“  How  about  Shelley?  ” 

“  Frank  raves  about  Shelley,”  observed  Maude. 

Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer  shook  her  head. 

“  His  work  has  some  dreadful  tendencies.  He 
was,  I  am  informed,  either  a  theist  or  an  atheist, 
I  can  not  for  the  moment  recall  which.  I  think 
that  we  should  make  our  little  course  as  improving 
as  possible.” 

“  Tennyson,”  Maude  suggested. 

“  I  have  been  told  that  his  meaning  is  too  clear 


226 


A  DUET. 


to  entitle  him  to  rank  among  the  great  thinkers 
of  our  race.  The  lofty  thought  is  necessarily  ob¬ 
scure.  There  is  no  merit  in  following  a  poem 
which  is  perfectly  intelligible.  Which  leads  us 
to - ” 

“  Browning!  ”  cried  the  other  ladies. 

“  Exactly.  We  might  form  a  little  Browning 
Society  of  our  own.” 

“  Charming!  charming!  ” 

And  so  it  was  agreed. 

There  was  only  one  other  point  to  be  settled 
at  this  their  inaugural  meeting,  which  was  to 
choose  the  other  ladies  who  should  be  admitted 
into  their  literary  circle.  There  were  to  be  no 
men. 

“  They  do  distract  one  so  !  ”  said  Mrs.  Hunt 
Mortimer. 

The  great  thing  was  to  admit  no  one  save  those 
earnest  spirits  who  would  aspire  to  get  the  full 
benefit  from  their  studies.  Mrs.  Fortescue  could 
not  be  thought  of — she  was  much  too  talkative. 
And  Mrs.  Mason  had  such  a  frivolous  mind !  Mrs. 
Charles  could  think  and  talk  of  nothing  but  her 
servants.  And  Mrs.  Patt-Beatson  always  wanted 
to  lay  down  the  law.  Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  it 
would  be  better  to  start  the  society  quietly  among 
themselves,  and  then  gradually  to  increase  it.  The 


THE  BROWNING  SOCIETY. 


227 


first  meeting  should  be  next  Wednesday  at  Mrs. 
Crosse’s  house,  and  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer  would 
bring  her  complete  two-volume  edition  with  her. 
Mrs.  Beecher  thought  that  one  volume  would  be 
enough  just  at  first,  but  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer  said 
that  it  was  better  to  have  a  wide  choice.  Maude 
went  home  and  told  Frank  in  the  evening.  He 
was  pleased,  but  rather  sceptical. 

“  You  must  begin  with  the  simpler  things 
first,”  said  he.  “  I  should  recommend  Herve  Biel 
and  Gold  Hair.” 

But  Maude  put  on  the  charming  air  of  dis¬ 
pleasure  which  became  her  so  well. 

“  We  are  serious  students,  sir,”  said  she.  “  We 
want  the  very  hardest  poem  in  the  book.  I  assure 
you,  Frank,  that  one  of  your  little  faults  is  that 
you  always  underrate  a  woman’s  intelligence.  Mrs. 
Hunt  Mortimer  says  that,  though  we  may  be  less 
original  than  men,  we  are  more  assim — more  as- 

•  •  j  > 

simi - 

“  Assimulative.” 

“  That’s  what  I  say — assimulative.  How,  you 
always  talk  as  if —  Oh,  yes  you  do!  Ho,  you 
mustn’t!  How  absurd  you  are,  Frank!  When¬ 
ever  I  try  to  speak  seriously  to  you,  you  always 
do  that  and  spoil  everything.  How  would  you  like 
to  discuss  Browning  if  at  the  end  of  every  sen- 


228 


A  DUET. 


tence  somebody  came  and  kissed  you  ?  You 
wouldn’t  mind!  No,  I  dare  say  not.  But  you 
would  feel  that  you  were  not  being  taken  seri¬ 
ously.  Wait  till  the  next  time  you  are  in  earnest 
about  anything — you’ll  see!  ” 

The  meeting  was  to  be  at  three  o’clock,  and 
at  ten  minutes  to  the  hour  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer 
arrived  with  two  large  brpwn  volumes  under  her 
arm.  She  had  come  early,  she  said,  because  there 
was  to  be  a  rehearsal  of  the  amateur  theatricals  at 
the  Dixons’  at  a  quarter  past  four.  Mrs.  Beecher 
did  not  appear  until  five  minutes  after  the  hour. 
Her  cook  had  quarrelled  with  the  housemaid  and 
given  instantaneous  notice,  with  five  people  com¬ 
ing  to  dinner  on  Saturday.  It  had  upset  her  very 
much,  and  she  explained  that  she  would  not  have 
come  if  she  had  not  promised.  It  was  so  difficult 
to  follow  poetry  when  you  were  thinking  about  the 
entree  all  the  time. 

“  Why  the  entree  ?  ”  asked  Mrs.  Hunt  Morti¬ 
mer,  looking  up  from  the  book  which  she  held  open 
in  front  of  her. 

“  My  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Beecher,  who  had  the 
art  of  saying  the  most  simple  things  as  if  they  were 
profoundly  confidential  secrets — “  my  dear,  my 
parlour-maid  is  really  an  excellent  cook,  and  I  shall 


THE  BROWNING  SOCIETY. 


229 


rely  upon  her  if  Martha  really  goes.  But  she  is 
limited,  very  limited,  and  entrees  and  savouries  are 
the  two  things  in  which  I  can  not  entirely  trust 
her.  I  must  therefore  find  some  dish  which  is  well 
within  her  capacity.” 

Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer  prided  herself  upon  her 
housekeeping,  so  the  problem  interested  her. 
Maude  also  began  to  feel  the  meeting  less  dull  than 
she  had  expected. 

“  Of  course,  there  are  many  things  to  be  con¬ 
sidered,”  said  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer,  with  the  air  of 
a  Q.  C.  giving  an  opinion.  “  Oyster  patties  or 
oyster  vol-au-vents - ” 

“  Oysters  are  out  of  season,”  said  Maude. 

“  I  was  about  to  say,”  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer 
continued,  with  admirable  presence  of  mind,  “  that 
these  entrees  of  oysters  are  inadmissible,  because 
they  are  out  of  season.  How,  curried  prawns - ” 

“  My  husband  loathes  them.” 

“Well,  well!  What  do  you  say  to  sweet¬ 
breads  en  caissef  All  you  want  are  chopped  mush¬ 
rooms,  shalots,  parsley,  nutmeg,  pepper,  salt,  bread¬ 
crumb,  bacon  fat - ” 

“  Ho,  no!”  cried  Mrs.  Beecher  despairingly. 
“  Anne  would  never  remember  all  that.” 

“  Cutlets  a  la  Constance ,”  said  Mrs.  Hunt  Mor¬ 
timer.  “  I  am  sure  that  they  are  simple  enough — 


230 


A  DUET. 


cutlets,  butter,  fowls’  livers,  cocks’  combs,  mush¬ 
rooms - ” 

“  My  dear,  my  dear,  remember  that  she  is  only 
a  parlour-maid!  It  is  unreasonable.” 

“  Ragout  of  fowl,  chicken  patties,  croquettes 
of  veal  with  a  little  browning - ” 

“  We’ve  got  back  to  Browning,  after  all!” 
cried  Maude. 

“  Dear  me!  ”  said  Mrs.  Beecher.  “  It  is  all  my 
fault,  and  I  am  so  sorry!  Row,  Mrs.  Hunt  Morti¬ 
mer,  do  please  read  us  a  little  of  that  delightful 
poetry.” 

“  You  can  always  get  small  entrees  sent  down 
from  the  stores,”  cried  Maude  as  a  happy  thought. 

“  You  dear,  good  girl,  how  sweet  of  you  to 
think  of  it!  Of  course  one  can.  That  is  really  an 
admirable  idea !  There,  now,  we  may  consid¬ 
er  the  entree  as  being  removed,  so  we  proceed 
to - ” 

“  The  piece  de  resistance ,”  said  Mrs.  Hunt 
Mortimer  solemnly,  glancing  down  the  index  of 
the  first  volume.  “  I  confess  that  my  acquaint¬ 
ance  with  the  poet  has  up  to  now  been  rather 
superficial.  Our  ambition  must  be  to  so  master 
him  that  he  becomes  from  this  time  forward  part 
and  parcel  of  ourselves.  I  fancy  that  the  difficul¬ 
ties  in  understanding  him  have  been  very  much 


THE  BROWNING  SOCIETY. 


231 


exaggerated,  and  that  with  good  will  and  perse¬ 
verance  we  shall  manage  to  overcome  them.” 

It  was  a  relief  to  Mrs.  Beecher  and  to  Maude 

to  realize  that  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer  knew  no  more 
about  the  matter  than  themselves.  They  both 
ventured  upon  a  less  diffident  air  now  that  it  was 
clear  that  it  might  be  done  in  safety.  Maude 
frowned  thoughtfully,  and  Mrs.  Beecher  cast  up 
her  pretty  brown  eyes  at  the  curtain  rod,  as  if  she 
were  running  over  in  her  memory  the  whole  long 
catalogue  of  the  poet’s  works. 

“  I  will  tell  you  what  we  should  do,”  said  she. 
“  We  must  make  a  vow  that  we  shall  never  pass 
a  line  until  we  understand  it.  We  will  go  over  it 
again  and  again  until  we  grasp  its  meaning.” 

“  What  an  excellent  idea!  ”  cried  Maude,  with 
one  of  her  little  bursts  of  enthusiasm.  “  How  that 
is  really  splendid,  Mrs.  Beecher.” 

“  My  friends  always  call  me  Nellie,”  said  the 
little  brunette. 

“  How  nice  of  you  to  say  so!  I  should  love  to 
call  you  so  if  you  don’t  mind.  It  is  such  a  pretty 
name,  too!  Only  you  must  call  me  Maude.” 

“  You  look  like  a  Maude,”  said  Mrs.  Beecher. 
“  I  always  picture  a  Maude  as  bright  and  pretty 
and  blond.  Isn’t  it  strange  how  names  associate 
themselves  with  characters?  Mary  is  always  do- 


232 


A  DUET. 


mestic  and  Rose  is  a  flirt,  and  Elizabeth  is  duti¬ 
ful  and  Evelyn  is  dashing,  and  Alice  is  colourless 
and  Helen  is  masterful - ” 

“  And  Matilda  is  impatient,”  said  Mrs.  Hunt 
Mortimer,  laughing.  “  Matilda  has  reason  to  be, 
seated  here  with  an  index  in  front  of  her  while  you 
two  are  exchanging  compliments.” 

“  Why,  we  were  waiting  for  you  to  begin,” 
said  Mrs.  Eeecher  reproachfully.  “  Do  let  us  have 
something,  for  really  the  time  is  slipping  away.” 

“  It  would  be  a  pity  to  begin  at  the  begin¬ 
ning,  because  that  represents  his  immature  genius,” 
remarked  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer.  “  I  think  that 
on  this  the  opening  day  of  the  society  we  should 
have  the  poet  at  his  best.” 

“  How  are  we  to  know  which  is  his  best?  ” 
Maude  asked. 

“  I  should  be  inclined  to  choose  something 
with  a  title  which  suggests  profundity.  A  Pretty 
Woman,  Love  in  a  Life,  Any  Wife  to  any  Hus¬ 
band - ” 

“  Oh,  what  did  she  say  to  him?  ”  cried  Maude. 

“  Well,  I  was  about  to  say  that  all  these  sub¬ 
jects  rather  suggested  frivolity.” 

“  Besides,  it  really  is  a  very  absurd  title,”  re¬ 
marked  Mrs.  Beecher,  who  was  fond  of  generaliz¬ 
ing  from  her  six  months’  experience  of  matrimony. 


THE  BROWNING  SOCIETY. 


233 


“A  Husband  to  a  Wife  would  be  intelligible,  but 
how  can  you  know  what  any  husband  would  say 
to  any  wife?  No  one  can  really  foretell  what  a  man 
will  do.  They  really  are  such  extraordinary  crea¬ 
tures!  ” 

But  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer  had  been  married  for 
five  years,  and  felt  as  competent  to  lay  down  the 
law  about  husbands  as  about  entrees. 

“  When  you  have  had  a  larger  experience  of 
them,  dear,  you  will  find  that  there  is  usually  a 
reason,  or  at  least  a  primitive  instinct  of  some  sort, 
at  the  root  of  their  actions.  But,  seriously,  we  must 
really  concentrate  our  attention  upon  the  poet,  for 
my  other  engagement  will  call  me  away  at  four, 
which  only  leaves  me  ten  minutes  to  reach  May- 
bury.” 

Mrs.  Beecher  and  Maude  settled  down  with  anx¬ 
ious  attention  upon  their  faces. 

“  Do  please  go  on !  ”  they  cried. 

“  Here  is  The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin.” 

“  Now  that  interests  me  more  than  I  can  tell!  ” 
cried  Maude,  with  her  eyes  shining  with  pleasure. 
“  Do  please  read  us  everything  there  is  about  that 
dear  piper.” 

“  Why  so?  ”  asked  her  two  companions. 

“  Well,  the  fact  is,”  said  Maude,  “  Frank — my 

husband,  you  know — came  to  a  fancy  dress  at  St. 

16 


234 


A  DUET. 


Albans  as  the  Pied  Piper.  I  had  no  idea  that  it 
came  from  Browning.” 

“  How  did  be  dress  for  it?  ”  asked  Mrs.  Beecher. 
“  We  are  invited  to  the  Aston’s  dress  ball,  and  I 
want  something  suitable  for  George.” 

“  It  was  a  most  charming  dress!  Red  and  black 
all  over — something  like  Mephistopheles,  you  know 
— and  a  peaked  hat  with  a  bell  at  the  top.  Then  he 
had  a  flute,  of  course,  and  a  thin  wire  from  his  waist 
with  a  stuffed  rat  at  the  end  of  it.” 

“  A  rat !  How  horrid !  ” 

“  Well,  that  was  the  story,  you  know.  The  rats 
all  followed  the  Pied  Piper,  and  so  this  rat  followed 
Prank.  He  put  it  in  his  pocket  when  he  danced, 
but  once  he  forgot  it  and  so  it  got  stood  upon,  and 
the  sawdust  came  out  all  over  the  floor.” 

Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer  was  also  invited  to  the 
dress  ball,  and  her  thoughts  flew  away  from  the 
book  in  front  of  her. 

“  How  did  you  go,  Mrs.  Crosse?  ”  she  asked. 

“  I  went  as  Higlit.” 

“  What!  you  with  your  brown  hair?  ” 

“  Well,  father  said  that  I  was  not  a  very  dark 
night.  I  was  in  black,  you  know,  just  my  ordinary 
black  silk  dinner  dress.  Then  I  had  a  silver  half¬ 
moon  over  my  head,  and  black  veils  round  my  hair, 
and  stars  all  over  my  bodice  and  skirt,  with  a  long 


THE  BROWNING  SOCIETY. 


235 


comet  right  across  the  front.  Father  upset  a  cup 
of  milk  over  me  at  supper,  and  said  afterward  that 
it  was  the  milky  way.” 

“  It  is  simply  maddening  how  men  will  make 
jokes  about  the  most  important  subjects,”  said  Mrs. 
Hunt  Mortimer.  “  But  I  have  no  doubt,  dear,  that 
your  dress  was  an  exceedingly  effective  one.  How, 

for  my  own  part,  I  had  some  idea  of  going  as  the 

• 

Duchess  of  Devonshire.” 

“  Charming!  ”  cried  Mrs.  Beecher  and  Maude. 
“  It  is  not  a  very  difficult  costume,  you  know. 
I  have  some  old  point  d’Alengon  lace  which  has 
been  in  the  family  for  a  century.  I  make  it  the 
starting  point  of  my  costume.  The  gown  need  not 

be  very  elaborate - ” 

“  Silk!  ”  cried  Mrs.  Beecher. 

“  Well,  I  thought  that  perhaps  a  white-flowered 
brocade - ” 

“  Oh,  yes,  with  pearl  trimming.” 

“  Ho,  no,  dear,  with  my  lace  for  trimming.” 

“  Of  course.  You  said  so.” 

“  And  then  a  muslin  fichu  coming  over  here.” 
“  How  perfectly  sweet!  ”  cried  Maude. 

“  And  the  waist  cut  high,  and  ruffles  at  the 
sleeves.  And,  of  course,  a  picture  hat — you  know 
what  I  mean — with  a  curling  ostrich  feather.” 

“  Powdered  hair,  of  course,”  said  Mrs.  Beecher. 


236 


A  DUET. 


“  Powdered  in  ringlets.” 

“  It  will  suit  you  admirably — beautifully !  You 
are  tall  enough  to  carry  it  off,  and  you  have  the 
figure  also.  How  I  wish  I  was  equally  certain 
about  my  own!  ” 

“  What  had  you  thought  of,  dear?  ” 

“  Well,  I  had  some  idea  about  Ophelia.  Do 
you  think  that  it  would  do?  ” 

“  Certainly.  Had  you  worked  it  out  at  all?  ” 

“  Well,  my  dear,”  said  Mrs.  Beecher,  relapsing 
into  her  pleasant,  confidential  manner,  “  I  had  some 
views,  but-,  of  course,  I  should  be  so  glad  to  have 
your  opinion  about  it.  I  only  saw  Hamlet  once, 
and  the  lady  was  dressed  in  white  with  a  gauzy 
light  nun’s  veiling  over  it.  I  thought  that  with 
white  pongee  silk  as  an  underdress,  and  then  some 

sort  of  delicate - ” 

“ Crepe  de  chine”  Maude  suggested. 

“  But  in  Ophelia’s  day  such  a  thing  had  never 
been  heard  of,”  said  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer.  “  A  net 
of  silver  thread - ” 

“  Exactly!”  cried  Mrs.  Beecher;  “  with  some 
sort  of  jewelling  upon  it.  *  That  was  just  what  I  had 
imagined.  Of  course,  it  would  be  cut  classically  and 
draped— my  dressmaker  is  such  a  treasure! — and  I 
should  have  a  gold  embroidery  upon  the  white  silk.” 
“  Crewel  work,”  said  Maude. 


THE  BROWNING  SOCIETY. 


237 


“  Or  a  plain  cross-stitch  pattern.  Then  a  tiara 

of  pearls  on  the  head.  Shakespeare - ” 

At  the  name  of  the  poet  their  three  consciences 
pricked  simultaneously.  They  looked  at  each 
other  and  then  at  the  clock  with  dismay. 

“  We  must,  we  really  must  go  on  with  our  read¬ 
ing!  ”  cried  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer.  “  How  did  we 
get  talking  about  these  dresses?  ” 

“  It  was  my  fault,’’  said  Mrs.  Beecher,  looking 
contrite. 

“  Ho,  dear,  it  was  mine,”  said  Maude.  “  You 
remember  it  all  came  from  my  saying  that  I  rank 
had  gone  to  the  ball  as  the  Pied  Piper.” 

“  I  am  going  to  read  the  very  first  poem  that  I 
open,”  said  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer  remorselessly.  “  I 
am  afraid  that  it  is  almost  time  that  I  started,  but 
we  may  still  be  able  to  skim  over  a  few  pages.  How, 
then!  There!  Setebos!  What  a  funny  name!  ” 
“  What  does  it  mean?  ”  asked  Maude. 

“  We  shall  find  out  no  doubt  as  we  proceed,” 
said  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer.  “  We  shall  take  it  line 
by  line,  and  draw  the  full  meaning  from  it.  The 
first  line  is: 

“  Will  sprawl  now  that  the  heat  of  day  is  best — ” 

“  Who  will?”  asked  Mrs.  Beecher. 
u  I  don’t  know.  That’s  what  it  says.” 


238 


A  DUET. 


a  The  next  line  will  explain,  no  doubt.” 

“  ‘  Flat  on  his — ’  Dear  me,  I  had  no  idea  that 
Browning  was  like  this!  ” 

“  Do  read  it,  dear.” 

“  I  couldn’t  possibly  think  of  doing  so.  With 
your  permission,  we  will  pass  on  to  the  next  para¬ 
graph.” 

“  But  we  vowed  not  to  skip.” 

“  But  why  read  what  can  not  instruct  or  ele¬ 
vate  us  ?  Let  us  begin  this  next  stanza  and  hope  for 
something  better.  The  first  line  is — I  wonder  if 
it  really  can  be  as  it  is  written.” 

“  Do  please  read  it!  ” 

“  ‘  Setebos  and  Setebos  and  Setebos.’  ” 

The  three  students  looked  sadly  at  each  other. 

“  This  is  worse  than  anything  I  could  have  im¬ 
agined/’  said  the  reader. 

“  We  must  skip  that  line.” 

“  But  we  are  skipping  everything.” 

“  It’s  a  person’s  name,”  said  Mrs.  Beecher. 

“  Or  three  persons.” 

“  No,  only  one,  I  think.” 

“  But  why  should  he  repeat  it  three  times?  ” 

“  For  emphasis.” 

“  Perhaps,”  said  Mrs.  Beecher,  “  it  was  Mr. 
Setebos  and  Mrs.  Setebos  and  a  little  Setebos.” 

“  Now  if  you  are  going  to  make  fun,  I  won’t 


THE  BROWNING  SOCIETY. 


239 


read.  But  I  think  we  were  wrong  to  say  that  we 
would  take  it  line  by  line.  It  would  be  easier  sen¬ 
tence  by  sentence.” 

“  Quite  so.” 

“  Then  we  will  include  the  next  line,  which 
finishes  the  sentence.  It  is,  i  Thinketh  he  dwelleth 
in  the  cold  of  the  moon.’  ” 

“  Then  it  was  only  one  Setebos!  ”  cried  Maude. 

“  So  it  appears.  It  is  easy  to  understand  if  one 
will  only  put  it  into  ordinary  language.  This  per¬ 
son  Setebos  was  under  the  impression  that  his  life 
was  spent  in  the  moonlight.” 

u  But  what  nonsense  it  is!  ”  cried  Mrs.  Beecher. 

Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer  looked  at  her  reproach¬ 
fully.  “  It  is  very  easy  to  call  everything  which 
we  do  not  understand  nonsense,”  said  she.  “  I  have 
no  doubt  that  Browning  had  a  profound  meaning 
in  this,” 

“  What  was  it,  then?” 

Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer  looked  at  the  clock. 

“  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  to  go,”  said  she*  “  but 
really  I  have  no  choice  in  the  matter.  Just  as  we 
were  getting  on  so  nicely — it  is  really  most  vex¬ 
atious.  You’ll  come  to  my  house  next  Wednesday, 
Mrs.  Crosse,  won’t  you?  And  you  also,  Mrs.  Beech¬ 
er.  Good-bye,  and  thanks  for  such  a  pleasant  after¬ 
noon!  ” 


240 


A  DUET. 


But  her  skirts  had  hardly  ceased  to  rustle  in 
the  passage  before  the  Browning  Society  had  been 
dissolved  by  a  two-thirds  vote  of  the  total  member¬ 
ship. 

“  What  is  the  use?  ”  cried  Mrs.  Beecher.  “  Two 
lines  have  positively  made  my  head  ache,  and  there 
are  two  volumes.” 

“  We  must  change  our  poet.” 

“  His  verbosity!”  cried  Mrs.  Beecher. 

“  His  Setebosity !  ”  cried  Maude. 

“  And  dear  Mrs.  Hunt  Mortimer  pretending  to 
like  him!  Shall  we  propose  Tennyson  next  week?  ” 
“  It  would  be  far  better.” 
u  But  Tennyson  is  quite  simple,  is  he  not?  ” 
u  Perfectly.” 

“  Then  why  should  we  meet  to  discuss  him  if 
there  is  nothing  to  discuss?  ” 

“You  mean  that  we  might  as  well  each  read 
him  for  herself.” 

“  I  think  it  would  be  easier.” 

“  Why,  of  course  it  would.” 

And  so  after  one  hour  of  precarious  life  Mrs. 
Hunt  Mortimer's  Mutual  Improvement  Society  for 
the  Elucidation  of  Browning  came  to  an  untimely 
end. 


7 


XVII. 

AN  INVESTMENT. 

“  I  want  your  advice,  Maude.” 

She  was  looking  very  sweet  and  fresh  in  the 
morning  sunlight.  She  wore  a  flowered  French 
print  blouse,  little  sprigs  of  roses  on  a  white  back¬ 
ground,  and  a  lace  frill  round  her  pretty  white 
smooth  throat.  The  buckle  of  her  brown  leather 
belt  just  gleamed  over  the  edge  of  the  tablecloth. 
In  front  of  her  were  a  litter  of  correspondence,  a 
white  cup  of  coffee,  and  two  empty  egg  shells — for 
she  was  a  perfectly  healthy  young  animal  with  an 
excellent  appetite. 

“  Well,  dear,  what  is  it?  ” 

“  I  shall  take  the  later  train.  Then  I  need 
not  hurry,  and  can  walk  down  at  my  ease.” 

“  How  nice  of  you!  ” 

“  I  am  not  sure  that  Dinton  will  think  so.” 

“  Only  one  little  hour  of  difference !  What  can 
it  matter?  ” 

“  They  don’t  run  offices  on  those  lines.  An 

hour  means  a  good  deal  in  the  city  of  London.” 

241 


242 


A  DUET. 


“  Oh,  I  do  hate  the  city  of  London!  It  is  the 
only  thing  which  ever  comes  between  us.” 

“  I  suppose  that  it  separates  a  good  many  lov¬ 
ing  couples  every  morning.” 

He  had  come  across  and  an  egg  cup  had  been 
upset.  Then  he  had  been  scolded,  and  they  sat 
together  laughing  upon  the  sofa.  When  he  had 
finished  admiring  her  little  shining  patent  leather 
Louis  shoes,  and  the  two  charming  curves  of  open¬ 
work  black  stocking,  she  reminded  him  that  he  had 
asked  for  her  advice. 

“  Yes,  dear,  what  was  it?  ”  She  knitted  her 
brows  and  tried  to  look  as  her  father  did  when  he 
considered  a  matter  of  business.  But  then  her 
father  was  not  hampered  by  having  a  young  man’s 
arm  round  his  neck.  It  is  so  hard  to  be  business¬ 
like  when  any  one  is  curling  one’s  hair  round  his 
finger ! 

“  I  have  some  money  to  invest.” 

“  O  Frank!  how  clever  of  you!  ” 

“  It  is  only  fifty  pounds.” 

“  Never  mind,  dear;  it  is  a  beginning.” 

“  That  is  what  I  feel.  It  is  the  foundation  stone 
of  our  fortunes.  And  so  I  want  her  Majesty  tc  lay 
it — mustn’t  wrinkle  your  brow,  though;  that  is  not 
allowed.” 

“  But  it  is  a  great  responsibility,  Frank.” 


AN  INVESTMENT. 


243 


“  Yes,  we  must  not  lose  it.’’ 

“  No,  dear,  we  must  not  lose  it.  Suppose  we 
invest  it  in  one  of  those  modern  fifty-guinea  pianos. 
Our  dear  old  Broad  was  an  excellent  piano  when 
I  was  a  girl,  but  it  is  getting  so  squeaky  in  the 
upper  notes!  Perhaps  they  would  allow  us  some¬ 
thing  for  it.” 

He  shook  his  head. 

“  I  know  that  we  want  one  very  badly,  dear. 
And  such  a  musician  as  you  are  should  have  the 
best  instrument  that  money  can  buy.  I  promise 
you  that  when  we  have  a  little  to  turn  round  on 
you  shall  have  a  beauty.  But  in  the  meantime  we 
must  not  buy  anything  with  this  money — I  mean 
nothing  for  ourselves.  We  must  invest  it.  We 
can  not  tell  what  might  happen.  I  might  fall  ill. 
I  might  die.” 

“  O  Frank!  how  horrid  you  are  this  morn¬ 
ing!  ” 

“  Well,  we  have  to  be  ready  for  anything.  So 
I  want  to  put  this  where  we  can  get  it  on  an  emer¬ 
gency,  and  where  in  the  meantime  it  will  bring  us 
some  interest.  Now,  what  shall  we  buy?  ” 

“  Papa  always  bought  a  house.” 

“  But  we  have  not  enough.” 

“  Not  a  little  house?  ” 


“  No,  not  the  smallest.” 


244 


A  DUET. 


“  A  mortgage,  then?  ” 

“  The  sum  is  too  small.” 

“  Government  stock,  Frank — if  you  think  it  is 
safe.” 

“  Oh,  it  is  safe  enough !  But  the  interest  is  so 
low!” 

“  How  much  should  we  get?  ” 

“  Well,  I  suppose  the  fifty  pounds  would  bring 
us  in  about  thirty  shillings  a  year.” 

“  Thirty  shillings!  O  Frank!  ” 

“  Rather  less  than  more.” 

“  Fancy  a  great  rich  nation  like  ours  taking  our 
fifty  pounds  and  treating  us  like  that!  How  mean 
of  them!  Don’t  let  them  have  it,  Frank.” 

“  Ho,  I  won’t.” 

“  If  they  want  it,  they  can  make  us  a  fair  offer 
for  it.” 

“  I  think  we’ll  try  something  else.” 

“  Well,  they  have  only  themselves  to  thank. 
But  you  have  some  plan  in  your  head,  Frank.  What 
is  it?  ” 

He  brought  the  morning  paper  over  from  the 
table.  Then  he  folded  it  so  as  to  bring  the  finan¬ 
cial  columns  to  the  top. 

“  I  saw  a  fellow  in  the  city  yesterday  who  knows 
a  great  deal  about  gold  mining.  I  only  had  a  few 
minutes’  talk,  but  he  strongly  advised  me  to  have 


AN  INVESTMENT. 


245 


some  shares  in  the  El  Dorado  Proprietary  gold 
mine.” 

“  What  a  nice  name !  I  wonder  if  they  would 
let  us  have  any?  ” 

“  Oh,  yes,  they  are  to  he  bought  in  the  open 
market.  It  is  like  this,  Maude.  The  mine  was  a 
very  good  one,  and  paid  handsome  dividends.  Then 
it  had  some  misfortunes.  First  there  was  no  water, 
and  then  there  was  too  much  water  and  the  work¬ 
ings  were  flooded.  So,  of  course,  the  price  of  the 
shares  fell.  How  they  are  getting  the  mine  all 
right  again,  but  the  shares  are  still  low.  It  cer¬ 
tainly  seems  a  very  good  chance  to  pick  a  few  of 
them  up.” 

“  Are  they  very  dear,  Frank?  ” 

“  I  looked  them  up  in  the  Mining  Register  be¬ 
fore  I  came  home  yesterday.  The  original  price  of 
each  share  was  ten  shillings,  but  as  they  have  had 
these  misfortunes  one  would  expect  to  find  them 
rather  lower.” 

“  Ten  shillings!  It  does  not  seem  much  to  pay 
for  a  share  in  a  thing  with  a  name  like  that.” 

“  Here  it  is,”  said  he,  pointing  with  a  pencil 
to  one  name  in  a  long  printed  list.  “  This  one,  be¬ 
tween  the  Royal  Bonanza  and  the  Alabaster  Con¬ 
sols.  You  see — El  Dorado  Proprietary!  Then 
after  it  you  have  printed  4f — 4£.  I  don’t  profess 


246 


A  DUET. 


to  know  mucli  about  these  tilings,  but  that,  of 
course,  means  the  price.” 

“  Yes,  dear,  it  is  printed  at  the  top  of  the  col¬ 
umn — ‘  Yesterday’s  prices.’  ” 

“  Quite  so.  Well,  we  know  that  the  original 
price  of  each  share  was  ten  shillings,  and,  of  course, 
they  must  have  dropped  with  a  flood  in  the  mine, 
so  that  these  figures  must  mean  that  the  price  yes¬ 
terday  was  four  shillings  and  ninepence,  or  there¬ 
abouts.” 

“  What  a  clear  head  for  business  you  have, 
dear!  ” 

“  I  think  we  can’t  do  wrong  in  buying  at  that 
price.  You  see  with  our  fifty  pounds  we  could  buy 
two  hundred  of  them,  and  then  if  they  went  up 
again  we  could  sell  and  take  our  profit.” 

“  IIow  delightful!  But  suppose  they  don’t  go 
up?” 

“  Well,  they  can’t  go  down.  I  should  not  think 
that  a  share  at  four  shillings  and  ninepence  could 
go  down  very  much.  There  is  no  room.  But  it 
may  go  up  to  any  extent.” 

“  Besides,  your  friend  said  that  they  would 
go  up.” 

“  Yes,  he  seemed  quite  confident  about  it. 
Well,  what  do  you  think,  Maude?  Is  it  good 
enough  or  not  ?  ” 


» 


AN  INVESTMENT. 


247 


“  O  Frank!  I  hardly  dare  advise  you.  Just  im¬ 
agine  if  we  were  to  lose  it  all!  Do  you  think  it 
would  be  wiser  to  get  a  hundred  shares,  and  then 
we  could  buy  twenty-five  pounds  worth  of  Royal 
Bonanzas  as  well.  It  would  be  impossible  for  them 
both  to  go  wrong.” 

“  The  Royal  Bonanza  shares  are  dear,  and  then 
we  have  had  no  information  about  it.  I  think  we 
had  better  back  our  own  opinion.” 

“  All  right,  Frank.” 

“  Then  that  is  settled.  I  have  a  telegraph  form 
here.” 

“  Could  you  not  buy  them  yourself  when  you 
are  in  town?  ” 

“  Ho,  you  can’t  buy  things  yourself.  You  have 
to  do  it  through  a  broker.” 

“  I  always  thought  a  broker  was  a  horrid  man 
who  came  and  took  your  furniture  away.” 

“Ah!  that’s  another  kind  of  broker.  He  comes 
afterward.  I  promised  Harrison  that  he  should 
have  any  business  which  I  could  put  in  his  way, 
so  here  goes.  How  is  that: 

“  Harrison ,  13a  T  hrogmorton  Street  E.  G.  : 

“  *  Buy  two  hundred  El  Dorado  Proprietaries. 

“  ‘  Crosse,  Woking.’  ” 

“  Doesn’t  it  sound  rather  peremptory,  Frank?  ” 

“  Ho,  no;  that  is  mere  business.” 


248 


A  DUET. 


“  I  hope  he  won’t  be  offended.” 

“  I  think  I  can  answer  for  that.” 

“  You  have  not  said  the  price.” 

“  One  can  not  say  the  price  because  one  does 
not  know  it.  You  see,  it  is  always  going  up  and 
down.  By  this  time  it  may  be  a  little  higher  or  a 
little  lower  than  yesterday.  There  can  not  be  much 
change — that  is  certain.  Great  Scott,  Maude,  it  is 
ten  fifteen!  Three  and  a  half  minutes  for  a  quar¬ 
ter  of  a  mile!  Good-bye,  darling!  I  just  love  you 
in  that  bodice.  O  Lord !  Good-bye !  ” 

“  Well,  has  anything  happened?” 

“  Yes,  you  have  come  back.  Oh,  I  am  90  glad 
to  see  you,  you  dear  old  boy!  ” 

“  Take  ca;re  of  that  window,  darling!  ” 

“  Oh,  my  goodness,  I  hope  he  didn’t  see!  Ho, 
it’s  all  right.  He  was  looking  the  other  way.  We 
have  the  gold  shares  all  right.” 

“  Harrison  has  telegraphed?” 

“  Yes,  here  it  is.” 

“  ‘  Crosse,  Linden  Villa ,  Woking: 

“  ‘  Bought  two  hundred  El  Dorados  at  4j. 

“  ‘  Habbison.’  ” 

“  That  is  capital!  I  rather  expected  to  see  Har¬ 
rison  in  the  train.  I  shouldn’t  be  surprised  if  he 


AN  INVESTMENT. 


249 


calls  on  his  way  from  the  station.  He  lias  to  pass 
our  door,  you  know,  on  his  way  to  Maybury.” 

“  He  is  sure  to  call.” 

“  What  are  you  holding  there? ” 

“  It’s  a  paper.” 

"  What  paper?  ” 

“  Who  is  it  who  talks  about  woman’s  curi¬ 
osity?  ” 

“  Let  me  see  it.” 

“  Well,  sir,  if  you  must  know,  it  is  the  Finan¬ 
cial  Whisper.” 

“  Where  in  the  world  did  you  get  it?  ” 

“  I  knew  that  the  Montresors  took  a  financial 
paper.  I  remember  Mrs.  Montresor  saying  once 
how  dreadfully  dry  it  was!  So  when  you  were 
gone  I  sent  Jemima  round  and  borrowed  it,  and  I 
have  read  it  right  through  to  see  if  there  was  any¬ 
thing  about  our  mine  in  it — our  mine,  Frank  l 
Does  it  not  sound  splendid?  ” 

“  Well,  is  there  anything?  ” 

She  clapped  her  hands  with  delight. 

“  Yes,  there  is.  (  This  prosperous  mine  9 — that 
is  what  it  says.  Look  here!  it  is  under  the  head¬ 
ing  of  Australian  Hotes.”  She  held  out  the  paper 
and  pointed,  but  his  face  fell  as  he  looked. 

“  O  Maude!  it’s  c  preposterous  ’!  ” 

“  What  is  preposterous?  ” 

IT 


250 


A  DUET. 


“  TLe  word  is  preposterous  and  not  prosperous 
— ‘  this  preposterous  mine.’  ” 

“  Frank!  ”  She  turned  her  face  away. 

“  Never  mind,  dear!  What’s  the  odds?  ” 

“O  Frank!  our  first  investment — our  fifty 
pounds!  And  to  think  that  I  should  have  kept 
the  paper  as  a  surprise  for  you!  ” 

“  Well,  the  print  is  a  little  slurred,  and  it  was 
a  very  natural  mistake.  After  all,  the  paper  may 
he  wrong.  Oh,  don’t,  Maude,  please,  don’t!  It’s 
not  worth  it — all  the  gold  on  the  earth  is  not  worth 
it.  There’s  a  sweet  girlie!  Now  are  you  better? 
Oh,  damn  those  open  curtains!  ” 

A  tall  and  brisk  young  man  with  a  glossy  hat 
was  coming  through  the  garden.  An  instant  later 
Jemima  had  ushered  him  in. 

“  Hullo,  Harrison!  ” 

“  How  do  you  do,  Crosse?  How  are  you,  Mrs. 
Crosse?  ” 

“  How  do  you  do?  I’ll  just  order  tea  if  you 
will  excuse  me.” 

Ordering  tea  seemed  to  involve  a  good  deal  of 
splashing  water.  Maude  came  back  with  a  merrier 
face. 

“  Is  this  a  good  paper,  Mr.  Harrison?  ” 

“  What  is  it?  Financial  Whisper!  No,  the 
most  venal  rag  in  the  city.” 


AN  INVESTMENT. 


251 


“  Oli,  I  am  so  glad!  ”  r 

“  Why? ” 

“  Well,  you  know  we  bought  some  shares  to¬ 
day,  and  it  calls  our  mine  a  preposterous  one.” 

“  Oh,  is  that  all?  Who  cares  what  the  Finan¬ 
cial  Whisper  says?  It  would  call  the  Bank  of  Eng¬ 
land  a  preposterous  institution  if  it  thought  it  could 
bear  consols  by  doing  so.  Its  opinion  is  not  worth 
a  halfpenny.  By  the  way,  Crosse,  it  was  about 
those  shares  that  I  called.” 

“  I  thought  you  might.  I  have  only  just  got 
back  myself,  and  I  saw  by  your  wire  that  you  had 
bought  them  all  right.” 

“  Yes,  I  thought  I  had  better  let  you  have 
your  contract  at  once.  Settling  day  is  on  Monday, 
you  know.” 

“  All  right.  Thank  you !  I  will  let  you  have 
a  cheque.  What — what’s  this?  ” 

The  contract  had  been  laid  face  upward  upon 
the  table.  Frank  Crosse’s  face  grew  whiter  and 
his  eyes  larger  as  he  stared  at  it.  It  ran  in  this  way: 

13a  Throgmorton  Street. 

Bought  for  Francis  Crosse,  Esq. 

(Subject  to  the  Specific  Rules  and  Regulations  of  the  Stock 

Exchange.) 

200  El  Dorado  Proprietaries  at  4f _  £950. 


Stamps  and  fees .  4.17.6 

Comm  ission .  7.10.0 


£962.07.6 


For  the  7th  inst. 


252 


A  DUET. 


“  I  fancy  there  is  some  mistake  here,  Harrison,” 
said  he,  speaking  with  a  very  dry  pair  of  lips. 

“  A  mistake!  ” 

“  Yes,  this  is  not  at  all  what  I  expected.” 
u  O  Frank  !  Nearly  a  thousand  pounds  !  ” 
gasped  Maude. 

Harrison  glanced  from  one  of  them  to  the 
other.  He  saw  that  the  matter  was  serious. 

u  I  am  very  sorry  if  there  has  been  any  mis¬ 
take.  I  tried  to  obey  your  instructions.  You 
wanted  two  hundred  El  Dorados,  did  you  not?  ” 

“  Yes,  at  four  and  ninepence.” 

“  Four  and  ninepence!  They  are  four  pound 
fifteen  each.” 

“  But  I  read  that  they  were  only  ten  shillings 
originally,  and  that  they  had  been  falling.” 

“  Yes,  they  have  been  falling  for  months.  But 
they  were  as  high  as  ten  pounds  once.  They  are 
down  at  four  pound  fifteen  now.” 

“  Why  on  earth  could  the  paper  not  say  so?  ” 
“  When  a  fraction  is  used  it  always  means  a 
fraction  of  a  pound.” 

“  Good  heavens!  And  I  have  to  find  this  sum 
before  Monday?  ” 

“  Monday  is  settling  day.” 

“  I  can’t  do  it,  Harrison!  It  is  impossible!  ” 

“  Then  there  is  the  obvious  alternative.” 


AN  INVESTMENT. 


253 


“  No,  I  had  rather  die.  I  will  never  go  bank¬ 
rupt — never!  ” 

Harrison  began  to  laugh,  and  then  turned  ston¬ 
ily  solemn  as  he  met  a  pair  of  reproachful  gray  eyes. 

“  It  strikes  me  that  you  have  not  done  much 
at  this  game,  Crosse.” 

“  Never  before — and,  by  Heaven,  never  again!  ” 

“  You  take  it  much  too  hard.  When  I  spoke 
of  an  alternative,  I  never  dreamed  of  bankruptcy. 
All  you  have  to  do  is  to  sell  your  stock  to-morrow 
morning  and  pay  the  difference.” 

“  Can  I  do  that?  ” 

“  Rather.  Why  not?  ” 

“  What  would  the  difference  be?  ” 

Harrison  took  an  evening  paper  from  his  pocket. 
“  We  deal  in  rails  chiefly,  and  I  don’t  profess  to 
keep  in  touch  with  the  mining  market.  We’ll  find 
the  quotation  here.  By  Jove!  ”  He  whistled  be¬ 
tween  his  teeth. 

“  Well!  ”  said  Frank,  and  felt  his  wife’s  little 
warm  palm  fall  upon  his  hand  under  the  table. 

“  The  difference  is  in  your  favour.” 

“  In  my  favotir?  ” 

“  Yes,  listen  to  this:  1  The  mining  markets, 
both  the  South  African  and  the  Australian,  opened 
dull,  but  grew  more  animated  as  the  day  proceeded, 
prices  closing  at  the  best.  Outcrops  upon  the  Rand 


254 


A  DUET. 


mark  a  general  advance  of  one  sixteenth  to  one 
eighth.  The  chief  feature  in  the  Australian  sec¬ 
tion  was  a  sharp  advance  of  five  eighths  in  El 
Dorados  upon  a  telegram  that  the  workings  had 
been  pumped  dry.’  Crosse,  I  congratulate  you.” 

“  I  can  really  sell  them  for  more  than  I  gave?  ” 
“  I  should  think  so.  You  have  two  hundred  of 
them,  and  a  profit  of  ten  shillings  on  each.” 

“  Maude,  we’ll  have  the  whisky  and  the  soda! — 
Harrison,  you  must  have  a  drink.  Why,  that’s  a 
hundred  pounds!  ” 

“  More  than  a  hundred.” 

“  Without  my  paying  anything?  ” 

“  Hot  a  penny.” 

“  When  does  the  exchange  open  to-morrow?  ” 

“  The  tattle  goes  at  eleven.” 

“  Well,  be  there  at  eleven,  Harrison.  Sell  them 
at  once.” 

“  You  won’t  hold  on  and  watch  the  market?  ” 

“  Ho,  no;  I  won’t  have  an  easy  moment  until 
they  are  sold.” 

“  All  right,  my  boy.  You  can  rely  upon  me. 
You  will  get  a  cheque  for  your  balance  on  Tues¬ 
day  or  Wednesday.  Good  evening!  I  am  so  glad 
that  it  has  all  ended  well.” 

“  And  the  joke  of  it  is,  Majide,”  said  her  hus¬ 
band,  after  they  had  talked  over  the  whole  adven- 


AN  INVESTMENT. 


255 


ture  from  the  beginning — “  the  joke  of  it  is  that 
we  have  still  got  to  find  an  investment  for  our 
original  fifty  pounds.  I  am  inclined  to  put  it  into 
consols,  after  all.” 

“  Well,”  said  Maude,  “  perhaps  it  would  be  the 
patriotic  thing  to  do.” 

Two  days  later  the  poor  old  Broad  wood  with 
the  squeaky  treble  and  the  wheezy  bass  was  ban¬ 
ished  forever  from  the  Lindens,  and  there  arrived 
in  its  place  a  ninety-five-guinea  cottage  grand,  all 
dark  walnut  and  gilding,  with  notes  in  it  so  deep 
and  rich  and  resonant  that  Maude  could  sit  before 
it  by  the  hour  and  find  music  enough  in  simply 
touching  one  here  and  one  there,  and  listening  to 
the  soft,  sweet  reverberant  tones  which  came  swell¬ 
ing  from  its  depth.  Her  El  Dorado  piano,  she 
called  it,  and  tried  to  explain  to  lady  visitors  how 
her  husband  had  been  so  clever  at  business  that  he 
had  earned  it  in  a  single  day.  As  she  was  never 
very  clear  in  her  own  mind  how  the  thing  had  oc¬ 
curred,  she  never  succeeded  in  explaining  it  to  any 
one  else,  but  a  vague  and  solemn  impression  be¬ 
came  gradually  diffused  abroad  that  young  Mr. 
Frank  Crosse  was  a  very  remarkable  man,  and  that 
he  had  done  something  exceedingly  clever  in  the 
matter  of  an  Australian  mine. 


XVIII. 


A  THUNDERCLOUD. 

Blue  skies  and  shining  sun,  but  far  down  on 
the  horizon  one  dark  cloud  gathers  and  drifts  slow¬ 
ly  upward  unobserved.  Frank  Crosse  was  aware 
of  its  shadow  when,  coming  down  to  breakfast,  he 
saw  an  envelope  with  a  well-remembered  hand¬ 
writing  beside  his  plate.  How  he  had  loved  that 
writing  once !  how  his  heart  had  warmed  and  quick¬ 
ened  at  the  sight  of  it !  how  eagerly  he  had  read  it ! 
And  now  a  viper  coiled  upon  the  white  tablecloth 
would  hardly  have  given  him  a  greater  shock.  Con¬ 
tradictory,  incalculable,  whimsical  life!  A  year 
ago  how  scornfully  he  would  have  laughed,  what 
contemptuous  unbelief  would  have  filled  his  soul 
if  he  had  been  told  that  any  letter  of  hers  could 
have  struck  him  cold  with  the  vague  apprehension 
of  coming  misfortune.  He  tore  off  the  envelope 
and  threw  it  into  the  fire.  But  before  he  could 
glance  at  the  letter  there  was  the  quick  patter  of 

his  wife’s  feet  upon  the  stair,  and  she  burst,  full 
256 


A  THUNDERCLOUD. 


257 


of  girlish  health  and  high  spirits,  into  the  little 
r  room.  She  wore  a  pink  crepon  dressing-gown 
with  cream  guipure  lace  at  the  neck  and  wrists. 
Pink  ribbon  outlined  her  trim  waist.  The  morn¬ 
ing  sun  shone  upon  her,  and  she  seemed  to  him 
to  be  the  daintiest,  sweetest  thing  upon  earth. 
He  had  thrust  his  letter  into  his  pocket  as  she  en¬ 
tered. 

u  You  will  excuse  the  dressing-gown,  Frank.” 

"  I  just  love  you  in  it.  No,  you  mustn’t  pass! 
Now  you  can  go.” 

“  I  was  so  afraid  that  you  would  breakfast  with¬ 
out  me  that  I  had  no  time  to  dress.  I  shall  have 
the  whole  day  to  finish  in  when  you  are  gone. 
There,  now,  Jemima  has  forgotten  to  warm  the 
plates  again !  And  your  coffee  is  cold !  I  wish  you 
had  not  waited.” 

“  Better  cold  coffee  with  Maude’s  society.” 

“  I  always  thought  men  gave  up  complimenting 
their  wives  after  they  married  them.  I  am  so  glad 
you  don’t!  I  think,  on  the  whole,  that  women’s 
ideas  of  men  are  unfair  and  severe.  The  reason 
is,  that  the  women  who  have  met  unpleasant  men 
run  about  and  make  a  noise,  but  the  women  who 
are  happy  just  keep  quiet  and  enjoy  themselves. 
For  example,  I  have  not  time  to  write  a  book  ex¬ 
plaining  to  every  one  how  nice  Frank  Crosse  is, 


258 


A  DUET. 


but  if  he  were  nasty,  my  life  would  be  empty,  and 
so,  of  course,  I  should  write  my  book.’’ 

“  I  feel  such  a  fraud  when  you  talk  like  that.” 

“  That  is  part  of  your  niceness.” 

“  Oh,  don’t,  Maude!  It  really  hurts  me.” 

“  Why,  Frank,  what  is  the  matter  with  you 
to-day?  ” 

“  Nothing,  dear.” 

“  Oh,  yes,  there  is.  I  can  tell  easily.” 

“  Perhaps  I  am  not  quite  myself.” 

“  No,  I  am  sure  that  you  are  not.  I  believe 
that  you  have  a  cold  coming  on.  O  Frank!  do  take 
some  ammoniated  quinine!  ” 

“  Good  heavens,  no !  ” 

“ Please!  please!” 

u  My  dear  girlie,  there  is  nothing  the  matter 
with  me.” 

“  But  it  is  such  splendid  stuff!  ” 

“  Yes,  I  know.  But  really  I  don’t  want  it.” 

“Have  you  had  any  letters,  Frank?  ” 

“  Yes,  one.” 

“  Anything  important?  ” 

“  I  have  hardly  glanced  at  it  yet.” 

“  Glance  at  it  now.” 

“  Oh,  I  will  keep  it  for  the  train.  Good-bye, 
dearest!  It  is  time  that  I  was  off.” 

“  If  you  would  only  take  the  ammoniated  qui- 


I 


A  THUNDERCLOUD. 


259 


nine.  You  men  are  so  proud  and  obstinate.  Good¬ 
bye,  darling!  Eight  hours,  and  then  I  shall  begin 
to  live  again/’ 

He  had  a  quiet  corner  of  a  first-class  carriage 
to  himself,  so  he  unfolded  his  letter  and  read  it. 
Then  he  read  it  again  with  frowning  brows  and 
compressed  lips.  It  ran  in  this  way: 

“  My  dearest  Frankie:  I  suppose  that  I  should 
not  address  you  like  this,  now  that  you  are  a  good 
little  married  man,  but  the  force  of  custom  is  strong, 
and,  after  all,  I  knew  you  long  before  she  did.  I 
don’t  suppose  you  were  aware  of  it,  but  there  was 
a  time  when  I  could  very  easily  have  made  you 
marry  me,  in  spite  of  all  you  may  know  about  my 
trivial  life  and  adventures,  but  I  thought  it  all  over 
very  carefully,  and  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  was  not  good  enough.  You  were  always  a  dear 
good  chap  yourself,  but  your  prospects  were  not 
quite  dashing  enough  for  your  festive  Violet.  I 
believe  in  a  merry  time,  even  if  it  is  a  short  one. 
But  if  I  had  really  wanted  to  settle  down  in  a  hum¬ 
drum  sort  of  way,  you  are  the  man  whom  I  should 
have  chosen  out  of  the  whole  batch  of  them.  I 
hope  what  I  say  won’t  make  you  conceited,  for 
one  of  your  best  points  used  to  be  your  modesty. 


260 


A  DUET. 


“  But  for  all  that,  my  dear  Frankie,  I  by  no 
means  give  you  up  altogether,  and  don’t  you  make 
any  mistake  about  that.  It  was  only  yesterday  that 
I  saw  Charlie  Scott,  and  he  told  me  all  about  you 
and  gave  me  your  address.  Don’t  you  bless  him! 
And  yet  I  don’t  know.  Perhaps  you  have  still  a 
kindly  thought  of  your  old  friend,  and  would  like 
to  see  her. 

“  But  you  are  going  to  see  her  whether  you 
like  or  not,  my  dear  boy,  so  make  up  your  mind 
to  that.  You  know  how  you  used  to  chaff  me  about 
my  whims.  Well,  I’ve  got  a  whim  now,  and  I’ll 
have  my  way  as  usual.  I  am  going  to  see  you  to¬ 
morrow,  and,  if  you  won’t  see  me  under  my  con¬ 
ditions  in  London,  I  shall  call  at  Woking  in  the 
evening.  Oh,  my  goodness,  what  a  bombshell! 
But  you  know  that  I  am  always  as  good  as  my 
word.  So  look  out! 

“  Yow,  I’ll  give  you  your  orders  for  the  day, 
and  don’t  you  forget  them.  To-morrow  (Thurs¬ 
day — 14th — no  excuses  about  the  date)  you  will 
leave  your  office  at  3.30.  I  know  that  you  can 
when  you  like.  You  will  drive  to  Mariani’s,  and 
you  will  find  me  at  the  door.  We  shall  go  up  to 

i 

our  old  private  room,  and  we  shall  have  tea  together 
and  a  dear  old  chat  about  all  sorts  of  things.  So 
come!  But  if  you  don’t,  there  is  a  train  which 


A  THUNDERCLOUD. 


261 


leaves  Waterloo  at  6.10  and  reaches  Woking  at  7. 
I  will  come  by  it,  and  be  just  in  time  for  dinner. 
What  a  joke  it  will  be! 

“  Good-bye,  old  boy !  I  hope  your  wife  does 
not  read  your  letters,  or  this  will  rather  give  her 
fits.  Yours  as  ever, 

“  Violet  Wright.” 

At  the  first  reading  this  letter  filled  him  with 
anger.  To  be  wooed  by  a  very  pretty  woman  is 
pleasant  even  to  the  most  austere  of  married  men 
(and  never  again  trust  the  one  who  denies  it),  but 
to  be  wooed  with  a  very  dangerous  threat  mixed 
up  with  the  wooing  is  no  such  pleasant  experience. 
And  it  was  no  empty  threat.  Violet  was  a  woman 
who  prided  herself  upon  being  as  good  as  her  word. 
She  had  laughingly  said  with  her  accustomed  frank¬ 
ness  upon  one  occasion  that  it  was  her  sole  remain¬ 
ing  virtue.  If  he  did  not  go  to  Mariani’s,  she 
would  certainly  come  to  Woking.  He  shuddered 
to  think  of  Maude  being  annoyed  by  her.  It  was 
one  thing  to  speak  in  a  general  way  to  his  wife 
about  prematrimonial  experiences,  and  it  was  an¬ 
other  to  have  this  woman  forcing  herself  upon  her 
and  making  a  scene.  The  idea  was  so  vulgar !  The 
sweet,  pure  atmosphere  of  the  Lindens  would  never 
be  the  same  again. 


262 


A  DUET. 


No,  there  was  no  getting  out  of  it.  He  must 
go  to  Mariani’s.  He  was  sufficiently  master  of  him¬ 
self  to  know  that  no  harm  could  come  of  that.  His 
absolute  love  for  his  wife  shielded  him  from  all 
danger.  The  very  thought  of  infidelity  nauseated 
him.  And  then  as  the  idea  became  more  familiar 
to  him  other  emotions  succeeded  that  of  anger. 
There  was  an  audacity  about  his  old  flame,  a  spirit 
and  devilment  which  appealed  to  his  sporting  in¬ 
stincts.  Besides,  it  was  complimentary  to  him,  and 
flattering  to  his  masculine  vanity  that  she  should 
not  give  him  up  without  a  struggle.  Merely  as  a 
friend  it  would  not  be  disagreeable  to  see  her  again. 
Before  he  had  reached  Clapham  Junction  his  anger 
had  departed,  and  by  the  time  that  he  arrived  at 
Waterloo  he  was  surprised  to  find  himself  looking 
forward  to  the  interview. 

Mariani’s  is  a  quiet  restaurant,  famous  for  its 
lachryma  christi  spumante ,  and  situated  in  the 
network  of  sombre  streets  between  Drury  Lane  and 
Covent  Garden.  The  fact  of  its  being  in  a  by- 

i 

street  was  not  unfavourable  to  its  particular  class 
of  business.  Its  customers  were  very  free  from  the 
modem  vice  of  self-advertisement,  and  would  even 
take  some  trouble  to  avoid  publicity.  Nor  were 
they  gregarious  or  luxurious  in  their  tastes.  A 
small  simple  apartment  was  usually  more  to  their 


A  THUNDERCLOUD. 


263 


taste  than  a  crowded  salon ,  and  they  were  even  pre¬ 
pared  to  pay  a  higher  sum  for  it. 

It  was  five  minutes  to  four  when  Frank  ar¬ 
rived,  and  the  lady  had  not  yet  appeared.  He 
stood  near  the  door  and  waited.  Presently  a  han¬ 
som  rattled  into  the  narrow  street,  and  there  she 
sat  framed  in  its  concavity.  A  pretty  woman  never 
looks  prettier  than  in  a  hansom,  with  the  shadows 
behind  to  give  their  Rembrandt  effect  to  the  face 
in  front.  She  raised  a  yellow  kid  hand  and  flashed 
a  smile  at  him. 

“  Just  the  same  as  ever,”  said  she,  as  he  handed 
her  down. 

“  So  are  you.” 

“  So  glad  you  think  so!  I  am  afraid  I  can’t 
quite  agree  with  you.  Thirty-four  yesterday.  It’s 
simply  awful !  Thank  you,  I  have  some  change. — 
All  right,  cabby. — Well,  have  you  got  a  room?  ” 

“  Xo.” 

“  But  you’ll  come?  ” 

“  Oh,  yes,  I  should  like  to  have  a  chat.” 

The  clean-shaven,  round-faced  manager,  a  man 
of  suave  voice  and  diplomatic  manner,  was  standing 
in  the  passage.  His  strange  life  was  spent  in  stand¬ 
ing  in  the  passage.  He  remembered  the  pair  at 
once,  and  smiled  paternally. 

'  “  Hot  seen  you  for  some  time,  sir.” 


264 


A  DUET. 


“  USTo,  I  have  been  engaged.” 

“  Married,”  said  the  lady. 

“  Dear  me!  ”  said  the  proprietor.  “  Tea,  sir?  ” 

“  And  muffins.  You  used  to  like  the  muffins.” 

a  Oh,  yes,  muffins,  by  all  means!  ” 

“  Ho.  10,”  said  the  proprietor,  and  a  waiter 
showed  them  upstairs.  “  All  meals  nine  shillings 
each,”  he  whispered  as  Frank  passed  him  at  the 
door.  He  was  a  new  waiter,  and  so  mistook  every 
one  for  a  new  customer,  which  is  an  error  which 
runs  through  life. 

It  was  a  dingy  little  room,  with  a  round  table 
covered  by  a  soiled  cloth  in  the  middle.  Two  win¬ 
dows  discreetly  blinded  let  in  a  dim  London  light. 
An  armchair  stood  at  each  side  of  the  empty  fire¬ 
place,  and  an  uncomfortable  old-fashioned  horse¬ 
hair  sofa  lined  the  opposite  wall.  There  were  pink 
vases  upon  the  mantelpiece,  and  a  portrait  of  Gari¬ 
baldi  above  it. 

The  lady  sat  down  and  took  off  her  gloves. 
Frank  stood  by  the  window  and  smoked  a  cigarette. 
The  waiter  rattled  and  banged  and  jingled,  with 
the  final  effect  of  producing  a  tea-tray  and  a  hot- 
water  dish.  “  You’ll  ring  if  you  want  me,  sir,” 
said  he,  and  shut  the  door  with  ostentatious  com¬ 
pleteness. 

“  How  we  can  talk,”  said  Frank,  throwing  hia 


A  THUNDERCLOUD. 


265 


\ 


cigarette  into  the  fireplace.  “  That  waiter  was  get¬ 
ting  on  my  nerves.” 

“  I  say,  I  hope  you’re  not  angry.” 

“  What  at?  ” 

“  Well,  my  saying  I  would  come  down  to  Wo¬ 
king  and  all  that.” 

“  I  should  have  been  angry  if  I  thought  you 
had  meant  it.” 

“  Oh,  I  meant  it  right  enough!  ” 

“  But  with  what  object?  ” 

“  Just  to  get  level  with  you,  Frankie,  if  you 
threw  me  over  too  completely.  Hang  it  all,  she  has 
you  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days  in  the  year! 
Am  I  to  be  grudged  a  single  hour?  ” 

“  Well,  Violet,  we  won’t  quarrel  about  it.  You 
see,  I  came  all  right.  Pull  up  your  chair  and  have 
some  tea.” 

“  You  haven’t  even  looked  at  me  yet.  I  won’t 
take  any  tea  until  you  do.” 

She  stood  up  in  front  of  him  and  pushed  up  her 

veil.  It  was  a  face  and  a  figure  worth  looking  at. 

Hazel  eyes,  dark  chestnut  hair,  a  warm  flush  of 

pink  in  her  cheeks,  the  features  and  outlines  of  an 

old  Grecian  goddess,  but  with  more  of  Juno  than 

of  Venus,  for  she  might  perhaps  err  a  little  upon 

the  side  of  opulence.  There  was  a  challenge  and 

defiance  dancing  in  those  dark  devil-may-care  eyes 
18 


266 


A  DUET. 


of  hers  which  might  have  roused  a  more  cold¬ 
blooded  man  than  her  companion.  Her  dress  was 
simple  and  dark,  but  admirably  cut.  She  was  clever 
enough  to  know  that  a  pretty  woman  should  con¬ 
centrate  attention  upon  herself,  and  a  plain  one 
divert  it  to  her  adornments. 

“  Well?” 

“  By  Jove,  Violet,  you  look  splendid!  ” 

“  Well?  ” 

“  The  muffins  are  getting  cold.” 

“  Frankie,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?  ” 

“  Nothing  is  the  matter.” 

“  Well?” 

She  put  out  her  two  hands  and  took  hold  of 
his.  That  well-remembered  sweet,  subtle  scent  of 
hers  rose  to  his  nostrils.  There  is  nothing  more 
insidious  than  a  scent  which  carries  suggestions  and 
associations.  “  Frankie,  you  have  not  kissed  me 
yet.” 

She  turned  her  smiling  face  upward  and  side¬ 
ways,  and  for  an  instant  he  leaned  forward  toward 
it.  But  he  had  himself  in  hand  again  in  a  moment. 
It  gave  him  confidence  to  find  how  quickly  and 
completely  he  could  do  it.  With  a  laugh,  still  hold¬ 
ing  her  two  hands,  he  pushed  her  back  into  the 
chair  by  the  table. 

“  There’s  a  good  girl!  ”  said  he.  “Now  we’ll 


A  THUNDERCLOUD. 


207 


have  some  tea,  and  I’ll  give  you  a  small  lecture 
while  we  do  so.” 

“  You  are  a  nice  one  to  give  lectures!  ” 

“  Oh,  there’s  no  such  preacher  as  a  converted 
sinner.” 

“  You  really  are  converted,  then?  ”  - 

“  Rather.  Two  lumps,  if  I  remember  right. 
You  ought  to  do  this,  not  I.  Ho  milk  and  very 
strong — how  you  keep  your  complexion  I  can’t 
imagine!  But  you  do  keep  it — my  word,  you  do! 
Row  please  don’t  look  so  crossly  at  me.” 

Her  flushed  cheeks  and  resentful  eyes  had 
drawn  forth  the  remonstrance. 

“  You  are  changed,”  she  said,  with  surprise  as 
well  as  anger  in  her  voice. 

“  Why,  of  course  I  am.  I  am  married.” 

“For  that  matter,  Charlie  Scott  is  married.” 

“  Don’t  give  Charlie  Scott  away.” 

“  I  think  I  give  myself  away.  So  you  have 
lost  all  your  love  for  me?  I  thought  it  was  to  last 
forever.” 

“  Row  do  be  sensible,  Violet.” 

“  Sensible !  How  I  loathe  that  word !  A  man 
only  uses  it  when  he  is  going  to  do  something  cold¬ 
blooded  and  mean.  It  is  always  the  beginning  of 
the  end.” 

“  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?  ” 


2G8 


A  DUET. 


“  I  want  you  to  be  my  own  Frankie — just  the 
aame  as  before.  Ah,  do,  Frankie;  don’t  leave  me! 
You  know  I  would  give  any  of  them  up  for  you. 
And  you  have  a  good  influence  over  me — you  have, 
reallv!  You  can’t  think  how  hard  I  am  with  other 
people.  Ask  Charlie  Scott.  He  will  tell  you.  I’ve 
been  so  different  since  I  have  lost  sight  of  you! 
How,  Frankie,  don’t  be  horrid  to  me!  Kiss  and 
be  nice!  ”  Again  her  soft,  warm  hand  was  upon 
his  and  the  faint,  sweet  smell  of  violets  went  to  his 
blood  like  wine.  He  jumped  up,  lit  another  cigar¬ 
ette,  and  paced  about  the  room. 

“  You  sha’n’t  have  a  cigarette,  Frankie!  ” 

“  Why  not?  ” 

“  Because  you  said  once  it  helped  you  to  con¬ 
trol  yourself.  I  don’t  want  you  to  control  yourself. 
I  want  you  to  feel  as  I  feel.” 

“  Do  sit  down  like  a  good  girl!  ” 

“  Cigarette  out!  ” 

“  Don’t  be  absurd,  Violet ! ” 

“  Come,  out  with  it,  sir!  ” 

“  Ho,  no;  leave  it  alone!  ” 

She  had  snatched  it  from  his  lips  and  thrown 
it  into  the  grate. 

“  What  is  the  use  of  that?  I  have  a  case  full.” 
“  They  shall  all  follow  the  first.” 

“  Well,  then,  I  won’t  smoke.” 


A  THUNDERCLOUD. 


269 


“  I'll  see  that  you  don’t.” 

“  Well,  what  the  better  are  you  for  that?  ” 

“  Now  be  nice.” 

“  Go  back  to  your  chair  and  have  some  more 
tea.” 

“  Oh,  bother  the  tea!  ” 

“  Well,  I  won’t  speak  to  you  unless  you  sit  down 
and  behave  yourself.” 

“  There,  now!  Speak  away!  ” 

“  Look  here,  dear  Violet,  you  must  not  talk 
about  this  any  more.  Some  things  are  possible  and 
some  are  impossible.  This  is  absolutely,  finally  im¬ 
possible.  We  can  never  go  back  upon  the  past.  It 
is  finished  and  done  with.” 

“  Then  what  did  you  come  here  for?  ” 

“  To  bid  you  good-bye.” 

“  A  Platonic  good-bye?” 

“  Of  course.” 

“  In  a  private  room  at  Mariani’s?  ” 

“  Why  not?  ” 

She  laughed  bitterly. 

“  You  were  always  a  little  mad,  Frankie.” 

He  leaned  earnestly  over  the  table. 

“  Look  here,  Violet,  the  chances  are  that  we 
shall  never  meet  again.” 

“  It  takes  two  to  say  that.” 

“  Well,  I  mean  that  after  to-day  I  should  not 


270. 


A  DUET. 


meet  you  again.  If  you  were  not  quite  what  you 
are,  it  would  be  easier.  But  as  it  is,  it  is  a  little 
too  much  of  a  test.  No,  don’t  mistake  me,  or  think 
that  I  am  weakening.  That  is  impossible.  But, 
all  the  same,  I  don’t  want  to  go  through  it  again.” 

“  So  sorry  if  I  have  upset  you.” 

He  disregarded  her  irony. 

“  We  have  been  very  good  friends,  Violet. 
Why  should  we  part  as  enemies?  ” 

“  Why  should  we  part  at  all?  ” 

“  We  won’t  go  back  over  that.  Now  do  please 
look  facts  in  the  face  and  help  me  to  do  the  right 
thing,  for  it  would  be  so  much  easier  if  you  would 
help  me.  If  you  were  a  very  good  and  kind  girl, 
you  would  shake  my  hand,  like  any  other  old  pal, 
and  wish  me  joy  of  my  marriage.  You  know  that 
I  would  do  so  if  I  knew  that  you  were  going  to  be 
married.” 

But  the  lady  was  not  to  be  so  easily  appeased. 
She  took  her  tea  in  silence  or  answered  his  remarks 
with  monosyllables,  while  the  occasional  flash  of 
her  dark  eyes  as  she  raised  them  was  like  the  dis¬ 
tant  lightning  which  heralds  the  storm.  Suddenly 
with  a  swift  rustle  of  skirts  she  was  between  the 
door  and  his  chair. 

“  Now,  Frankie,  we  have  had  about  enough  of 
this  nonsense,”  said  she.  “  Don’t  imagine  that  you 


A  THUNDERCLOUD.  271 

are  going  to  get  out  of  this  thing  so  easily!  I’ve 
got  you,  and  I’ll  keep  you.” 

He  faced  round  in  his  chair  and  looked  help¬ 
lessly  at  her  with  a  hand  upon  each  knee. 

£k  O  Lord!  Don’t  begin  it  all  over  again,” 
said  he. 

“  Ho,  I  won’t,”  she  answered  with  an  angry 
laugh.  “  I’ll  try  another  line  this  time,  Master 
Frank.  I’m  not  the  sort  of  woman  who  lets  a  thing 
go  easily  when  once  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  it. 

I  won’t  try  coaxing  any  longer - ” 

“  So  glad!  ”  he  murmured. 

“  You  may  say  what  you  like,  but  you  can’t 
do  it,  my  boy.  I  knew  you  before  she  did,  and  I’ll 
keep  you  or  else  I’ll  make  such  a  row  that  you  will 
be  sorry  that  you  ever  put  my  back  up.  It’s  all 
very  fine  to  sit  there  and  preach,  but  it  won’t  do, 
Frankie.  You  can’t  slip  out  of  things  as  easily  as 
all  that.” 

“  Why  should  you  turn  nasty  like  this,  Violet? 
What  do  you  think  you  will  gain  by  it?  ” 

“  I  mean  to  gain  you.  I  like  you,  Frankie. 
I’m  not  sure  that  I  don’t  really  love  you — real,  real 
love,  you  know.  Anyway,  I  don’t  intend  to  let 
you  go,  and  if  you  go  against  my  will  I  give  you 
my  word  that  I  will  make  it  pretty  sultry  for  you 
down  at  Woking.” 


272 


A  DUET. 


He  stared  moodily  into  his  teacup. 

“  Besides,  what  rot  it  all  is!  ”  she  continued, 
laying  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  “  When  did 
you  begin  to  ride  the  high  moral  horse?  You  were 
just  as  cheerful  as  the  rest  of  them  when  last  I 
Mw  you.  You  speak  as  if  a  man  ceased  to  live 
just  because  he  is  married.  What  has  changed 
you?  ” 

“  I’ll  tell  you  what  has  changed  me,”  said  he, 
looking  up.  “  My  wife  has  changed  me.” 

“  Oh,  bother  your  wife!  ” 

A  look  which  was  new  to  her  came  over  his 
face. 

“  Stop  that!  ”  said  he  sharply. 

“  Oh,  no  harm!  How  has  your  wife  made  this 
wonderful  change?  ” 

His  mood  softened  as  his  thoughts  flew  back  to 
Woking. 

“  By  her  own  goodness — the  atmosphere  that 
slip  makes  round  her.  If  you  knew  how  wholesome 
she  was,  how  delicate  in  her  most  intimate  thoughts, 
how  fresh  and  how  sweet  and  how  pure,  you  would 
understand  that  the  thought  of  being  false  to  her 
is  horrible.  When  I  think  of  her  as  she  sat  at 
breakfast  this  morning,  so  loving  and  so  inno¬ 
cent - ” 

He  would  have  been  more  discreet  if  he  had 


A  THUNDERCLOUD. 


273 


been  less  eloquent.  The  lady’s  temper  suddenly 
overflowed. 

“  Innocent!  ”  she  cried.  “  As  innocent  as  I 
am!” 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  eyes  which  were 
more  angry  than  her  own. 

“  Hold  your  tongue!  How  dare  you  talk 
against  my  wife?  You  are  not  fit  to  mention  her 
name!  ” 

“  I’ll  go  to  Woking!  ”  she  gasped. 

“  You  can  go  to  the  devil!  ”  said  he,  and  rang 
the  bell  for  his  bill.  She  stared  at  him  with  a  sur¬ 
prise  which  had  eclipsed  her  anger,  while  she  pulled 
on  her  gloves  with  little  sharp  twitches.  This  was 
a  new  Frank  Crosse  to  her.  As  long  as  a  woman 
gets  on  very  well  with  a  man,  she  is  apt  at  the  back 
of  her  soul  to  suspect  him  of  weakness.  It  is  only 
when  she  differs  from  him  that  she  can  see  the 
other  side,  and  it  always  comes  as  a  surprise.  She 
liked  him  better  than  ever  for  the  revelation. 

“  I’m  not  joking,”  she  whispered,  as  they  went 
down  the  stair.  “  I’ll  go  as  sure  as  fate !  ” 

He  took  no  notice,  but  passed  on  dowTn  the 
street  without  a  word  of  farewell.  When  he  came 
to  the  turning,  he  looked  back.  She  was  standing 
by  the  curb,  with  her  proud  head  high  in  the  air, 
while  the  manager  screamed  loudly  upon  a  whistle. 


274 


A  DUET. 


A  cab  swung  round  a  distant  corner.  Crosse 
reached  her  before  it  did. 

“  I  hope  I  haven’t  hurt  your  feelings,”  said  he. 
“  I  spoke  too  roughly.” 

“  Trying  to  coax  me  away  from  Woking,”  she 
sneered.  “  I’m  coming,  all  the  same.” 

“  That’s  your  affair,”  said  he,  as  he  handed  her 
into  the  cab. 


XIX. 


DANGER. 

Again  the  bright  little  dining  room,  with  the 
morning  sun  gleaming  upon  the  high  silver  coffee' 
pot  and  the  electro-plated  toast  rack— everything 
the  same,  down  to  the  plates  which  Jemima  had 
once  again  forgotten  to  warm.  Maude,  with  the 
golden  light  playing  upon  the  fringes  of  her  curls, 
and  throwing  two  little  epaulettes  of  the  daintiest 
pink  across  her  shoulders,  sat  in  silence,  glancing 
across  from  time  to  time  with  interrogative  eyes 
at  her  husband.  He  ate  his  breakfast  moodily, 
for  he  was  very  ill  at  ease.  There  was  a  struggle 
within  him,  for  his  conscience  was  pulling  him  one 
way  and  his  instincts  the  other.  Instincts  are  a 
fine  old  conservative  force,  while  conscience  is  a 
thing  of  yesterday,  so  it  is  usually  safe  to  prophesy 
which  will  sway  the  other. 

The  matter  at  issue  was  whether  he  should  tell 

Maude  about  Violet  Wright.  If  she  was  going 

to  carry  out  her  threat,  then  certainly  it  would  be 

*275 


276 


A  DUET. 


better  to  prepare  Her.  But,  after  all,  bis  argu¬ 
ments  of  yesterday  might  prevail  with  her  when 
her  first  impetuous  fit  of  passion  was  over.  Why 
should  he  go  halfway  to  meet  danger?  If  it  came, 
nothing  which  he  could  say  would  ward  it  off.  If 
it  did  not  come,  there  was  no  need  for  saying  any¬ 
thing.  Conscience  told  him  that  it  would  be  better 
to  be  perfectly  straight  with  his  wife.  Instinct 
told  him  that,  though  she  would  probably  be  sweet 
and  sympathetic  over  it,  yet  it  would  rankle  in  her 
mind  and  poison  her  thoughts.  And  perhaps  for 
once  instinct  may  have  been  better  than  conscience. 
Do  not  ask  too  many  questions,  you  young  wife! 
Do  not  be  too  free  with  your  reminiscences,  you 
young  husband!  There  are  things  which  can  be 
forgiven,  but  never,  never  can  they  be  forgotten. 
That  highest  thing  on  earth,  the  heart  of  a  loving 
woman,  is  too  tender,  too  sacred,  to  be  bruised 
by  a  wanton  confidence.  You  are  hers.  She  is 
yours.  The  future  lies  with  both  of  you.  It  is 
wiser  to  leave  the  past  alone.  The  couples  who 
boast  that  they  have  never  had  a  secret  are  some¬ 
times  happy  because  the  boast  is  sometimes  untrue. 

“You  won’t  be  late  to-day,  Frank?”  said 
Maude  at  last,  peeping  round  the  tall  coffee  pot. 

“  Yo,  dear,  I  won’t.” 

“  You  were  yesterday,  you  know.” 


i 


DANGER.  277 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  was.” 

“  Were  you  kept  at  the  office?  ” 

No,  I  had  tea  with  a  friend.” 

“  At  his  house?” 

“  No,  no;  at  a  restaurant.  Where  has  Jemima 
put  my  boots?  I  wonder  if  she  has  cleaned  them. 
I  can  never  tell  by  looking.  Here  they  are!  And 
my  coat  ?  Anything  I  can  get  you  in  town  ?  Well, 
good-bye,  dear,  good-bye!  ”  Maude  had  never  seen 
him  make  so  hurried  an  exit. 

It  is  always  a  mystery  to  the  city  man  how 
his  wife  puts  in  the  seven  hours  a  day  of  loneliness 
while  the  E.  C.  has  claimed  him  for  its  own.  She 
can  not  explain  it  to  him,  for  she  can  hardly  ex¬ 
plain  it  to  herself.  It  is  frittered  away  in  a  thou¬ 
sand  little  tasks,  each  trivial  in  itself,  and  yet  mak¬ 
ing  in  their  sum  the  difference  between  a  well- 
ordered  and  a  neglected  household.  Under  the 
illustrious  guidance  of'  the  omniscient  Mrs.  Beeton, 
there  is  the  usual  routine  to  be  gone  through.  The 
cook  has  to  be  seen,  the  larder  examined,  the  re¬ 
mains  cunningly  transformed  into  new  and  attract¬ 
ive  shapes,  the  dinner  to  be  ordered  (anything  will 
do  for  lunch),  and  the  new  supplies  to  be  got  in. 
The  husband  accepts  the  excellent  little  dinner — the 
fried  sole,  the  ris  de  veau  en  caisse ,  the  lemon  pud¬ 
ding — as  if  they  had  grown  automatically  out  of 


/ 


278 


A  DUET. 


the  tablecloth.  He  knows  nothing  of  the  care, 
the  judgment,  the  prevision  which  ring  the  changes 
with  every  season,  which  never  relax  and  never 
mistake.  He  enjoys  the  fruits,  but  he  ignores  the 
work  which  raised  them.  And  yet  the  work  goes 
cheerfully  and  uncomplainingly  on. 

Then  when  every  preparation  has  been  made 
for  the  dinner — that  solemn  climax  of  the  British 
day — there  is  plenty  for  Maude  to  do.  There  is 
the  white  chiffon  to  be  taken  out  of  the  neck  of 
that  dress  and  the  pink  to  be  put  in.  Amateur 
dressmaking  is  always  going  on  at  the  Lindens,  and 
Frank  has  become  more  careful  in  his  caresses  since 
he  found  one  evening  that  his  wife  had  a  row  of 
pins  between  her  lips — which  is  not  a  pleasant  dis¬ 
covery  to  make  with  your  own.  Then  there  are 
drawers  to  be  tidied,  and  silver  to  be  cleaned,  and 
the  leaves  of  the  gutta-percha  plant  to  be  washed, 
and  the  feather  which  was  damped  yesterday  to  be 
recurled  before  the  fire.  That  leaves  just  time  be¬ 
fore  lunch  to  begin  the  new  novel  by  glancing  at 
the  last  two  pages  to  see  what  did  happen,  and  then 
the  three  minutes’  lunch  of  a  lonely  woman.  So 
much  for  business;  now  for  the  more  trying  social 
duties.  The  pink  dressing-gown  is  shed,  and  a  trim 
little  walking  dress — French  gray  cloth  with  white 
lisse  in  front  and  a  gray  zouave  jacket — takes  its 


DANGER. 


279 


place.  Visiting  strangers  Is  not  nearly  so  hard 
when  you  are  pleased  with  your  dress,  and  even 
entertaining  becomes  more  easy  when  your  cos - 
tumiere  lives  in  Regent  Street.  On  Tuesdays 
Maude  is  at  home.  Every  other  day  she  hunts 
through  her  plate  of  cards,  and  is  overwhelmed  by 
a  sense  of  her  rudeness  toward  her  neighbours.  But 
her  task  is  never  finished,  though  day  after  day 
she  comes  back  jaded  with  her  exertions.  Stran¬ 
gers  still  call  upon  her — “  Hope  it  is  not  too  late  to 
do  the  right  thing  and  to  welcome,”  etc. — and  they 
have  Jo  be  revisited.  While  she  is  visiting  them 
other  cards  appear  upon  her  hall  table,  and  so  the 
foolish  and  tiresome  convention  continues  to  ex¬ 
haust  the  time  and  the  energies  of  its  victim. 

Those  original  receptions  were  really  very  dif¬ 
ficult.  Jemima  announced  a  name  which  might 
or  might  not  bear  some  relation  to  the  visitors. 
The  lady  entered.  Her  name  might  perhaps  be 
Mrs.  Baker.  Maude  had  no  means  of  knowing  who 
Mrs.  Baker  might  he.  The  visitor  seldom  descend¬ 
ed  to  an  explanation.  Ten  minutes  of  desultory 
and  forced  conversation  about  pine  woods  and  golf 
and  cremation.  A  cup  of  tea  and  a  departure. 
Then  Maude  would  rush  to  the  card  tray  to  try  to 
find  out  who  it  was  that  she  had  been  talking  to, 
and  what  it  was  all  about. 


( 


280 


A  DUET. 


Maude  did  not  intend  to  go  visiting  that  par¬ 
ticular  day,  and  she  had  hopes  that  no  one  might 
visit  her.  The  hours  of  danger  were  almost  past, 
and  it  was  close  upon  four  o’clock  when  there  came 
a  brisk  pull  at  the  bell. 

“  Mrs.  White !  ”  said  J emima,  opening  the 
drawing-room  door. 

“  Wright,”  said  the  visitor,  as  she  walked  in, 
“  Mrs.  Violet  Wright.” 

Maude  rose  with  her  pleasant  smile.  It  was  a 
peculiarly  sweet  and  kindly  smile,  for  it  was  in¬ 
spired  by  a  gentle  womanly  desire  to  make  things 
pleasant  for  all  who  were  around  her.  Amiability 
was  never  artificial  with  her,  for  she  had  the  true 
instincts  of  a  lady — those  instincts  so  often  spoken 
of,  so  seldom,  so  very  seldom  seen.  Like  a  gentle¬ 
man,  or  a  Christian,  or  any  other  ideal,  it  is  but  a 
poor  approximation  which  is  commonly  attained. 

But  the  visitor  did  not  respond  to  the  pretty 
gesture  of  welcome,  nor  did  her  handsome  face  re¬ 
turn  that  sympathetic  smile.  They  stood  for  an 
instant  looking  at  each  other,  the  one  tall,  master¬ 
ful,  mature,  the  other  sweet,  girlish,  and  self -dis¬ 
trustful,  but  each  beautiful  and  engaging  in  her 
own  way.  Lucky  Master  Frank,  whose  past  and 
present  could  take  such  a  form,  but  luckier  still  if 
he  could  have  closed  the  past  when  the  present 


DANGER. 


281 


opened.  The  visitor  was  silent,  but  her  dark  eyes 
looked  critically  and  fixedly  at  her  rival.  Maude, 
setting  the  silence  down  to  the  shyness  of  a  first 
visit,  tried  to  make  matters  easier. 

“  Please  try  this  armchair.  K o  doubt  you  have 
had  a  tiring  walk.  It  is  still  very  warm  in  the 
afternoons.  I  think  it  was  so  kind  of  you  to  call.” 

A  faint  smile  flickered  upon  the  dark  face. 

“  Kind  of  me  to  call?  ”  said  she. 

“  Yes,  for  in  a  rising  place  like  Woking,  with 
so  many  new  arrivals,  it  must  be  quite  a  task  for 
the  older  inhabitants  to  welcome  them.  I  have 
been  so  surprised  by  the  kindness  which  every  one 
has  shown.” 

“  Oh,  I  see,”  said  her  visitor;  “  you  think  that 
I  live  here.  I  have  really  just  come  down  from 
London.” 

“  Indeed!”  said  Maude,  and  awaited  an  ex¬ 
planation.  As  none  was  forthcoming,  she  added, 
“  You  will  find  Woking  a  very  nice  place.” 

“  A  nice  place  to  be  buried  in — alive  or  dead,” 
said  her  visitor. 

There  was  something  peculiarly  ungracious  in 
her  tone  and  manner.  It  seemed  to  Maude  that 
she  had  never  before  been  alone  with  so  singular 
a  person.  There  was,  in  the  first  place,  her  strik¬ 
ing  and  yet  rather  sinister  and  voluptuous  beauty. 

19 


282 


A  DUET. 


Then  there  was  the  absolute  carelessness  of  her 
manner,  the  quiet  assumption  that  she  was  outside 
the  usual  conventionalities  of  life.  It  is  a  manner 
only  to  be  met  in  English  life  among  some  of  the 
highest  of  the  high  world,  and  some  of  the  highest 
of  the  half  world.  It  was  new  to  Maude,  and  it 
made  her  uncomfortable,  while  mingled  with  it 
there  was  something  else  which  made  her  feel  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  incurred  the 
hostility  of  a  fellow-mortal.  It  chilled  her  and 
made  her  unhappy. 

The  visitor  made  no  effort  to  sustain  the  con¬ 
versation,  but  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  stared 
at  her  hostess  with  a  very  critical  and  searching 
glance.  Those  two  questioning  dark  eyes  played 
eagerly  over  her  from  her  golden  curls  down  to  the 
little  shining  shoe  tips  which  peeped  from  under 
the  gray  skirt.  Especially  they  dwelt  upon  her 
face,  reading  it  and  rereading  it.  Never  had 
Maude  be(  n  so  inspected,  and  her  instinct  told  her 
that  the  inspection  was  not  altogether  a  friendly 
one. 

Violet  Wright,  having  examined  her  rival,  pro¬ 
ceeded  now  with  the  same  cool  attention  to  take 
in  her  surroundings.  She  looked  round  deliberate¬ 
ly  at  the  furniture  of  the  room,  and  reconstructed 
in  her  own  mind  the  life  of  the  people  who  owned 


DANGER. 


283 


it.  Maude  ventured  upon  one  or  two  conventional 
remarks,  but  her  visitor  was  not  to  be  diverted  to 
the  weather  or  to  the  slowness  of  the  Southwestern 
train  service.  She  continued  her  quiet  and  silent 
inspection.  Suddenly  she  rose  and  swept  across  to 
the  side  table.  A  photograph  of  Frank  in  his  vol¬ 
unteer  uniform  stood  upon  it. 

“  This  is  your  husband,  Mr.  Frank  Crosse?  ” 

“  Yes;  do  you  know  him?  ” 

“  Slightly.  We  have  mutual  friends.’7  An 
ambiguous  smile  played  across  her  face  as  she 
spoke.  “  This  must  have  been  taken  after  I  saw 
him.” 

“  It  was  taken  just  after  our  marriage.” 

“  Quite  so.  ITe  looks  like  a  good  little  mar¬ 
ried  man.  The  photograph  is  flattering.” 

“  Oh,  you  think  so!  ”  said  Maude  coldly.  “  My 
own  impression  is  that  it  fails  to  do  him  justice.” 

Her  visitor  laughed.  “  Of  course,  that  would 
be  your  impression,”  said  she. 

Maude’s  gentle  soul  began  to  rise  in  anger. 

“  It  is  the  truth!  ”  she  cried. 

“  It  is  right  that  you  should  think  so,”  the  other 
answered  with  the  same  irritating  laugh. 

“  You  must  have  known  him  very  slightly  if 
you  can’t  see  that  it  is  the  truth.” 

“  Then  I  must  have  known  him  very  slightly.” 


284 


A  DUET. 


Maude  was  very  angry  indeed.  She  began  to 
find  sides  to  her  own  nature  whose  very  existence 
she  had  never  suspected.  She  tapped  her  little 
shoe  upon  the  ground,  and  she  sat,  with  a  pale  face 
and  compressed  lips  and  bright  eyes,  quite  pre¬ 
pared  to  be  very  rude  indeed  to  this  eccentric 
woman  who  ventured  to  criticise  her  Frank  in  so 
free  and  easy  a  style.  Her  visitor  watched  her, 
and  a  change  had  come  over  her  expression. 
Maude’s  evident  anger  seemed  to  amuse  and  inter¬ 
est  her.  Her  eyes  lost  their  critical  coldness  and 
softened  into  approval.  She  suddenly  put  her  hand 
upon  the  other’s  shoulder  with  so  natural  and  yet 
masterful  a  gesture  that  Maude  found  it  impos¬ 
sible  to  resent  it. 

“  He’s  a  lucky  man  to  have  such  a  warm  little 
champion,”  said  she. 

Her  strong  character  and  greater  knowledge  of 
the  world  gave  her  an  ascendency  over  the  girlish 
wife  such  as  age  has  over  youth.  There  were  not 
ten  years  between  them,  and  yet  Maude  felt  that 
for  some  reason  the  conversation  between  them 
could  not  quite  be  upon  equal  terms.  The  quiet 
assurance  of  her  visitor,  whatever  its  cause,  made 
resentment  or  remonstrance  verv  difficult.  Besides, 
they  were  a  pair  of  very  kindly  as  well  as  of  very 
shrewd  eyes  which  now  looked  down  into  hers. 


DANGER. 


285 


“  You  love  him  very  much,  then?  ” 
u  Of  course  I  love  him.  He  is  my  hus¬ 
band.” 

“  Does  it  always  follow?  ” 
u  You  are  married  yourself.  Don’t  you  love 
yours?  ” 

“  Oh,  never  mind  mine.  He’s  all  right.  Did 
you  ever  love  any  one  else  ?  ” 

“  Ho,  not  really.” 

Maude  was  astonished  at  herself,  and  yet  the 
questions  were  so  frankly  put  that  a  frank  answer 
came  naturally  to  them.  It  pleased  her  to  lose  that 
.  cold  chill  of  dislike,  and  to  feel  that  for  some  reason 
her  strange  visitor  had  become  more  friendly  to 
her. 

“  You  lucky  girl,  you  actually  married  the  one 
love  of  your  life!  ”  » 

Maude  smiled  and  nodded. 

“  What  a  splendid  thing  to  do !  How  happy 
you  must  be!  ” 

“  I  am  very,  very  happy.” 

“  Well,  I  dare  say  you  deserve  to  be.  Besides, 
you  really  are  very  pretty.  If  ever  you  had  a 
rival,  I  should  think  that  it  must  be  some  consola¬ 
tion  to  her  to  know  that  it  was  so  charming  a  per¬ 
son  who  cut  her  out.” 

Maude  laughed  at  the  thought. 


286 


A  DUET. 


“  I  never  had  a  rival,”  said  she.  “  My  husband 
never  really  loved  until  he  met  me.” 

“  Did  he —  Oh,  yes,  quite  so!  That  is  so  nice 
that  you  should  both  start  with  a  clean  sheet!  I 
thought  you  were  very  handsome  just  now  when 
you  were  angry  with  me,  but  you  are  quite  delight¬ 
ful  now  with  that  little  flush  upon  your  cheeks. 
If  I  had  been  a  man,  your  husband  would  certainly 
have  had  one  rival  in  his  wooing.  And  so  he  really 
never  loved  any  one  but  you.  I  thought  that  only 
happened  in  books.” 

There  was  a  hard  and  ironic  tone  in  the  last 
sentences  which  jarred  upon  Maude’s  sensitive  na¬ 
ture.  She  looked  up  quickly,  and  was  surprised 
at  the  drawn  look  of  pain  which  had  come  upon 
her  companion’s  face.  It  relaxed  into  a  serious  se- 

renitv. 

«> 

“  That  fits  in  beautifully,”  said  she.  “  But 
there’s  one  bit  of  advice  which  I  should  like  to 
give  you  if  you  won’t  think  it  a  liberty:  don’t 
be  selfish  in  your  married  life.’* 

“  Selfish!” 

“  Yes,  there’s  a  kind  of  family  selfishness  which 
is  every  bit  as  bad — I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  not 
worse — than  personal  selfishness.  People  love  each 
other,  and  they  shut  out  the  world  and  have  no 
thought  for  any  one  else,  and  the  whole  universe 


DANGER. 


287 


can  slide  to  perdition  as  long  as  their  love  is  undis¬ 
turbed.  That  is  what  I  call  family  selfishness.  It’s 
a  sin  and  a  shame.” 

Maude  looked  at  this  strange  woman  in  amaze¬ 
ment.  She  was  speaking  fast  and  hotly,  like  one 
whose  bitter  thoughts  have  been  long  pent  up  for 
want  of  a  suitable  listener. 

“  Remember  the  women  who  have  been  less 
fortunate  than  you.  Remember  the  thousands  who 
are  starving,  dying  for  want  of  love,  and  no  love 
comes  their  way;  whose  hearts  yearn  and  faint 
for  that  which  Nature  owes  them,  but  Nature  never 
pays  her  debt.  Remember  the  plain  women.  Re¬ 
member  the  lonely  women.  Above  all,  remember 
your  unfortunate  sisters,  they,  the  most  womanly 
of  all,  who  have  been  ruined  by  their  own  kindli¬ 
ness  and  trust  and  loving  weakness!  It  is  that 
family  selfishness  which  turns  every  house  in  the 
land  into  a  fort  to  be  held  against  these  poor  wan¬ 
derers.  They  make  them  evil,  and  then  they  re¬ 
vile  the  very  evil  which  they  have  made.  When 
I  look  back - ” 

She  stopped  with  a  sudden  sob.  Her  forearm 
fell  upon  the  mantelpiece,  and  her  forehead  upon 
her  forearm.  In  an  instant  Maude  was  by  her 
side,  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks,  for 
the  sight  of  grief  was  always  grief  to  her,  and 


288 


A  DUET. 


her  nerves  were  weakened  by  this  singular  inter- 

✓ 

view. 

“  Dear  Mrs.  Wright,  don’t  cry!”  she  whis¬ 
pered,  and  her  little  white  hand  passed  in  a  sooth¬ 
ing,  hesitating  gesture  over  the  coil  of  rich  chest¬ 
nut  hair.  “  Don’t  cry !  I  am  afraid  you  have  suf¬ 
fered.  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could  help  you!  Do  tell 
me  how  I  can  help  you.” 

But  Violet’s  occasional  fits  of  weakness  were 
never  of  a  very  long  duration.  She  dashed  her 
hand  impatiently  across  her  eyes,  straightened  her 
tall  figure,  and  laughed  as  she  glanced  at  herself 
in  the  mirror. 

“  Madame  Celandine  would  be  surprised  if  she 
could  see  how  I  have  treated  one  of  her  master¬ 
pieces,”  said  she,  as  she  straightened  her  crushed 
hat  and  arranged  her  hair  with  those  quick  little 
deft  pats  of  the  palm  with  which  women  can 
accomplish  so  much  in  so  short  a  time.  Rum¬ 
pled  finery  sets  the  hands  of  every  woman  with¬ 
in  sight  of  it  itching,  so  Maude  joined  in  at  the 
patting  and  curling,  and  forgot  all  about  her 
tears. 

“  There,  that  will  have  to  do!  ”  said  Violet  at 
last.  “  I  am  so  sorry  to  have  made  such  a  fool 
of  myself.  I  don’t  err  upon  the  sentimental  side 
as  a  rule.  I  suppose  it  is  about  time  that  I  thought 


DANGER. 


289 


of  catching  my  train  for  town.  I  have  a  theatre 
engagement  which  I  must  not  miss.” 

“  How  strange  it  is!  ”  said  Maude,  looking  at 
her  own  pretty  tear-marked  face  in  the  mirror. 
“  You  have  only  been  here  a  few  minutes,  as  time 
goes,  and  yet  I  feel  that  in  some  things  I  am  more 
intimate  with  you  than  with  any  woman  I  have 
ever  met.  How  can  it  be?  What  bond  can  there 
be  to  draw  us  together  like  this?  And  it  is  the 
more  extraordinary  because  I  felt  that  you  dis¬ 
liked  me  when  you  entered  the  room,  and  I  am 
sure  that  you  won’t  be  offended  if  I  say  that  when 
you  had  been  here  a  little  while  I  thought  that  I  dis¬ 
liked  you.  But  I  don’t.  On  the  contrary,  I  wish 
you  could  come  every  day.  And  I  want  to  come 
and  see  you  also  when  I  am  in  town.” 

Maude  for  all  her  amiability  was  not  gushing 
by  nature,  and  this  long  speech  caused  her  great 
astonishment  when  she  looked  back  upon  it.  But 
at  the  moment  it  came  so  naturally  from  her  heart 
that  she  never  paused  to  think  of  its  oddity.  Her 
enthusiasm  was  a  little  chilled,  however,  by  the 
way  in  which  her  advances  were  received.  Violet 
Wright’s  eyes  were  more  kindly  than  ever,  but  she 
shook  her  head. 

“  Ho,  I  don’t  suppose  we  shall  ever  meet  again. 
I  don’t  think  I  could  ask  you  to  visit  me  in  Lon- 


290 


A  DUET. 


don.  I  wanted  to  see  you,  and  I  have  seen  you, 
but  that,  I  fear,  must  be  the  end  of  it.” 

Maude’s  lip  trembled  in  a  way  which  it  had 
when  she  was  hurt. 

“  Why  did  you  wish  to  see  me,  then?  ”  she 
asked. 

“  On  account  of  that  slight  acquaintance  with 
your  husband.  I  thought  it  would  be  interesting 
to  see  what  sort  of  wife  he  had  chosen.” 

“  I  hope  you  are  not  disappointed,”  said  Maude, 
making  a  roguish  face. 

“  He  has  done  very  well — better  than  I  ex¬ 
pected.” 

“  You  had  not  much  respect  for  his  taste, 
then?  ” 

“  Oh,  yes,  I  always  thought  highly  of  his  taste.” 

u  You  have  such  a  pretty  way  of  putting  things. 
You  know  my  husband  very  slightly,  but  still  I 
can  see  that  you  know  the  world  very  well.  I 
often  wonder  if  I  am  really  the  best  kind  of  woman 
that  he  could  have  married.  Do  you  think  I  am, 
Mrs.  Wright?” 

She  looked  in  silence  for  a  little  at  the  gentle 
grace  and  dainty  sympathetic  charm  of  the  woman 
before  her. 

“  Yes,”  she  said  slowly,  as  one  who  weighs  her 
words,  “  I  think  you  are.  You  are  a  lady  with  a 


DANGER. 


291 


lady’s  soul  in  you.  A  woman  can  draw  a  man 
down  very  low,  or  she  can  make  liim  live  at  his 
very  highest.  Don’t  be  soft  with  him.  Don’t  give 
way  when  you  know  that  your  way  is  the  higher 
way.  Pull  him  up,  don’t  let  him  ever  pull  you 
down.  Then  his  respect  for  you  will  strengthen 
his  love  for  you,  and  the  two  together  are  so  much 
greater  than  either  one  apart!  Your  instinct  would 
be  to  do  this,  and  therefore  you  are  the  best  sort 
of  woman  for  him.” 

Her  opinion  was  given  with  so  much  thought 
and  yet  so  much  decision  that  Maude  glowed  with 
pride  and  with  pleasure.  There  were  knowledge 
and  authority  behind  the  words  of  this  unaccount¬ 
able  woman. 

“  How  sweet  you  are!”  she  cried.  “I  feel 
that  what  you  say  is  true.  I  feel  that  that  is  what 
a  wife  should  be  to  her  husband.  Please  God,  I 
will  be  so  to  Frank!  ” 

“  And  one  other  piece  of  advice  before  I  leave 
you,”  said  Violet  Wright.  “  Don’t  ever  take  your 
husband  for  granted.  Don’t  ever  accept  his  kiss 
or  caress  as  a  routine  thing.  Don’t  ever  relax  those 
little  attentions  which  you  showed  him  in  the  ear¬ 
liest  days.  Don’t  let  the  freshness  and  poetry  go 
out  of  love,  for  the  love  may  soon  follow  it,  even 
when  duty  keeps  the  man  true.  It  is  the  com- 


292 


A  DUET, 


monest  mistake  which  married  women  make.  It 
has  caused  more  unhappiness  than  any  other.  They 
do  not  realize  it  until  it  is  too  late.  Be  keenly 
watchful  for  your  husband’s  wants  and  comforts. 
It  is  not  the  comfort  but  the  attention  which  ho 
values.  If  it  is  not  there,  he  will  say  nothing  if  he 
is  a  good  fellow,  but  he  notices  it  all  the  same. 
She  has  changed,  he  thinks,  and  from  that  moment 
he  will  begin  to  change  also.  Be  on  your  guard 
against  that.  It  is  very  unselfish  of  me  to  give 
you  all  this  wise  counsel.” 

“  It  is  very  good  of  you,  and  I  feel  that  it  is 
all  so  true.  But  why  is  it  unselfish  of  you?  ” 

“  I  only  meant  that  I  had  no  interest  in  the 
matter.  What  does  it  matter  to  me  whether  you 
keep  his  love  or  not?  And  yet  I  don’t  know.” 
She  suddenly  put  her  arms  round  Maude  and  kissed 
her  upon  the  cheek.  “  You  are  a  good  little  sort, 
and  I  hope  you  will  be  happy.” 

Frank  Crosse  had  disentangled  himself  from  the 
rush  of  city  men  emerging  from  the- Woking  sta¬ 
tion,  and  he  was  walking  swiftly  through  the  gath¬ 
ering  gloom  along  the  vile,  deeply  rutted  road 
which  formed  a  short  cut  to  the  Lindens.  Sud¬ 
denly  with  a  sinking  heart  he  was  aware  of  a  tall, 
graceful  figure  which  was  sweeping  toward  him. 


DANGER. 


293 


There  could  not  be  two  women  of  that  height  who 
carried  themselves  in  that  fashion. 

“  Violet!  ” 

“  Hullo,  Frankie!  I  thought  it  might  be  you, 
but  those  tall  hats  and  black  overcoats  make  every 
one  alike.  Your  wife  will  be  glad  to  see  you.” 

“  Violet!  You  have  ruined  our  happiness. 
How  could  you  have  the  heart  to  do  it?  It  is  not 
for  myself  I  speak,  God  knows!  But  to  think  of 
her  feelings  being  so  abused,  her  confidence  so 
shaken - ” 

“  All  right,  Frankie,  there  is  nothing  to  be 
tragic  about.” 

“  Haven’t  you  been  to  my  house?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  have.” 

“  And  seen  her?  ” 

“  Yes.” 

“  Well,  then - ” 

“  I  didn’t  give  you  away,  my  boy.  I  was  a 
model  of  discretion.  I  give  you  my  word  that  it  is 
all  right.  And  she’s  a  dear  little  soul,  Frankie. 
You’re  not  worthy  to  varnish  those  pretty  patent 
leathers  of  hers.  You  know  you’re  not.  And,  by 
Jove!  Frankie,  if  you  had  stayed  with  me  longer 
yesterday,  I  should  have  never  forgiven  you- — no, 
never!  I’ll  resign  in  her  favour.  I  will.  But  in 
no  one  else’s,  and  if  ever  I  hear  of  your  going 


294 


A  DUET. 


wrong,  my  boy,  or  of  doing  anything  but  the  best 
with  that  sweet,  trusting  woman,  I’ll  make  you 
curse  the  day  that  ever  you  knew  me — I  will,  by 
the  living  Jingo!  ” 

“  Do,  Violet;  you  have  my  leave.” 

“  All  right.  The  least  said  the  soonest 
mended.  Give  me  a  kiss  before  we  part.” 

She  raised  her  veil  and  he  kissed  her.  He  was 
wearing  some  withered  flower  in  his  overcoat,  and 
she  took  it  from  him. 

“  It’s  a  souvenir  of.  our  friendship,  Frankie, 
and  rather  a  good  emblem  of  it  also.  So  long!  ” 
said  she,  as  she  turned  down  the  weary  road  which 
leads  to  the  station.  A  young  golfer  getting  in  at 
Byfleet  was  surprised  to  see  a  handsome  woman 
weeping  bitterly  in  the  corner  of  a  second-class  car¬ 
riage.  “  Cornin’  up  from  roastin’  somebody  at  that 
damned  crematory  place!  ”  was  his  explanation  to 
his  companion. 

Frank  had  a  long  and  animated  account  from 
Maude  of  the  extraordinary  visitor  whom  she  had 
entertained.  “  It’s  such  a  pity,  dear,  that  you 
don’t  know  her  well,  for  I  should  really  like  to 
hear  every  detail  about  her.  At  first  I  thought  she 
was  mad,  and  then  I  thought  she  was  odious,  and 
then,  finally,  she  seemed  to  be  the  very  wisest  and 
kindest  woman  that  I  had  ever  known.  She  made 


DANGER. 


295 


me  angry,  and  frightened,  and  grieved,  and  grate¬ 
ful,  and  affectionate,  one  after  the  other,  and  I 
never  in  my  life  was  so  taken  out  of  myself  by  any 
one.  She  is  so  sensible!  ” 

“  Sensible,  is  she?  ” 

“  And  she  said  that  I  was — oh,  I  can’t  repeat 
it! — everything  that  is  nice.” 

“  Then  she  is  sensible.” 

“  And  such  a  high  opinion  of  your  taste!  ” 

“  Has  she,  indeed?  ” 

“  Do  you  know,  Frank,  I  really  believe  that  in 
a  quiet,  secret,  retiring  sort  of  way  she  had  been 
fond  of  you  herself.” 

“  O  Maude!  what  funny  ideas  you  get  some¬ 
times!  I  say,  if  we  are  going  out  for  dinner,  it  is 
high  time  that  we  began  to  dress.” 


XX. 


NO.  5,  CHEYNE  ROW. 

Frank  had  brought  home  the  Life  of  Carlyle, 
and  Maude  had  been  dipping  into  it  in  the  few 
spare  half  hours  which  the  many  duties  of  a  young 
housekeeper  left  her.  At  first  it  struck  her  as  dry, 
but  from  the  moment  that  she  understood  that  this 
was,  among  other  things,  an  account  of  the  inner 
life  of  a  husband  and  a  wife,  she  became  keenly 
interested,  and  a  passionate  and  unreasonable  parti¬ 
san.  -For  Frederick  and  Cromwell  and  the  other 
great  issues  her  feelings  were  tolerant  but  luke¬ 
warm.  But  the  great  sex  questions  of  “  How  did 
he  treat  her?  ”  and  of  ((  How  ’did  she  stand  it?  ” 
filled  her  with  that  eternal  and  personal  interest 
with  which  they  affect  every  woman.  Her  gentle 
nature  seldom  disliked  any  one,  but  certainly 
among  those  whom  she  liked  least  the  gaunt  figure 
of  the  Chelsea  sage  began  to  bulk  largely.  One 
night,  as  Frank  sat  reading  in  front  of  the  fire,  he 
suddenly  found  his  wife  on  her  knees  upon  the 

rug  and  a  pair  of  beseeching  eyes  upon  his  face. 

296 


NO.  5,  CHKYNE  ROW. 


297 


“  Frank,  dear,  I  want  you  to  make  me  a 
promise.” 

“  Well,  wliat  is  it?  ” 

“  Will  you  grant  it?  ” 

“  How  can  I  tell  you  when  I  have  not  heard 
it?” 

“  How  horrid  you  are,  Frank!  A  year  ago 
you  would  have  promised  first  and  asked  after¬ 
ward.” 

“  But  I  am  a  shrewd  old  married  man  now. 
Well,  let  me  hear  it.” 

“  I  want  you  to  promise  me  that  you  will  never 
be  a  Carlyle.” 

“  Ho,  no,  never.” 

“  Really?” 

“  Beally  and  truly.” 

“  You  swear  it?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  do.” 

a  O  Frank!  you  can’t  think  what  a  relief  that 
is  to  me!  That  dear,  good,  helpful  little  lady — it 
really  made  me  cry  this  morning  when  I  thought 
how  she  had  been  used.” 

“  How  then?  ” 

“  I  have  been  reading  that  green-covered  book 

of  yours,  and  he  seemed  so  cold  and  so  sarcastic  and 

so  unsympathetic!  He  never  seemed  to  appreciate 

all  that  she  did  for  him.  He  had  no  thought  for 
20 


298 


A  DUET. 


her.  He  lived  in  his  books,  and  never  in  her- — 
such  a  harsh,  cruel  man!  ” 

Frank  went  upstairs  and  returned  with  a  vol¬ 
ume  in  his  hand. 

“  When  you  have  finished  the  Life,  you  must 
read  this,  dear.” 

“  What  is  it?  ” 

“  It  is  her  letters.  They  were  arranged  for 
publication  after  her  death,  but  while  her  husband 
was  still  alive.  You  know  that - ” 

“  Please  take  it  for  granted,  darling,  that  I 
know  nothing.  It  is  so  jolly  to  have  some  one  be¬ 
fore  whom  it  is  not  necessary  to  keep  up  appear¬ 
ances!  Now  begin  at  the  beginning  and  go  ahead.” 
She  pillowed  her  head  luxuriously  against  his 
knees. 

u  There’s  nothing  to  tell — or  very  little.  As 
you  say,  they  had  their  troubles  in  life.  The  lady 
could  take  particularly  good  care  of  herself,  I  be¬ 
lieve.  She  had  a  tongue  like  a  lancet  when  she 
chose  to  use  it.  He,  poor  chap!  was  all  liver  and 
nerves,  porridge-poisoned  in  his  youth.  No  chil¬ 
dren  to  take  the  angles  off  them.  Half  a  dozen 
little  buffer  states  would  have  kept  them  at  peace. 
However,  to  hark  back  to  what  I  was  about  to  say, 
he  outlived  her  by  fifteen  years  or  so.  During 
that  time  he  collected  these  letters,  and  he  has 


NO.  5,  CHEYNE  ROW. 


299 


annotated  them.  You  can  read  those  notes  here, 
and  the  man  who  wrote  those  notes  loved  his  wife 
and  cherished  her  memory  if  ever  a  man  did  upon 
earth.” 

The  graceful  head  beside  his  knees  shook  im¬ 
patiently. 

“  What  is  the  use  of  that  to  the  poor  dead 
woman?  Why  could  not  he  show  his  love  by  kind¬ 
ness  and  thought  for  her  while  she  was  alive?  ” 

“  I  tell  you,  Maude,  there  were  two  sides  to 
that.  Don’t  be  so  prejudiced!  And  remember 
that  no  one  has  ever  blamed  Carlyle  as  bitterly  as 
he  has  blamed  himself.  I  could  read  you  bits  of 
these  notes - ” 

“  Well,  do.”  ' 

“  Here’s  the  first  letter,  in  which  she  is  talk¬ 
ing  about  how  they  first  moved  into  the  house  at 
Cheyne  Row.  They  spent  their  early  years  in  Scot¬ 
land,  you  know,  and  he  was  a  man  going  on  to 
the  forties  when  he  came  to  London.  The  suc¬ 
cess  of  Sartor  Resartus  encouraged  them  to  the 
step.  Her  letter  describes  all  the  incoming.  Here 
is  his  comment,  written  after  her  death :  ‘  In  about 
a  week  all  was  swept  and  garnished,  fairly  hab¬ 
itable,  and  continued  incessantly  to  get  itself  pol¬ 
ished,  civilized,  and  beautified  to  a  degree  that 
surprised  one.  I  have  elsewhere  alluded  to  all  that, 


300 


A  DUET. 


and  to  my  little  Jeannie’s  conduct  of  it:  heroic, 
lovely,  pathetic,  mournfully  beautiful  a3  in  the 
light  of  eternity  that  little  scene  of  time  now  looks 
to  me.  From  birth  upward  she  had  lived  in  opu¬ 
lence,  and  now  became  poor  for  me — so  nobly  poor. 
No  such  house  for  beautiful  thrift,  quiet,  spontane¬ 
ous,  nay,  as  it  were,  unconscious — minimum  of 
money  reconciled  to  human  comfort  and  human 
dignity — have  I  anywhere  looked  upon  where  I 
have  been.’  Now,  Maude,  did  that  man  appreci¬ 
ate  his  wife  ?  ” 

But  the  obstinate  head  still  shook. 

“  Words,  words,”  said  she. 

“  Yes,  but  words  with  the  ring  of  truth  in 
them.  Can’t  you  tell  real  feeling  from  sham?  I 
don’t  believe  women  can,  or  they  would  not  be  so 
often  taken  in.  Here’s  the  heading  of  the  next 
letter:  ‘  Mournfully  beautiful  is  this  letter  to  me, 
a  clear  little  household  light  shining  pure  and  bril¬ 
liant  in  the  dark  obstructive  places  of  the  past.’  A 
little  later  comes  the  note :  ‘  Oh, '  my  poor  little 
woman — become  poor  for  me.’  ” 

“  I  like  to  hear  him  talk  like  that.  Yes,  I  do 
like  him  better  after  what  you  have  said,  Frank.” 

“  You  must  remember  two  things  about  him, 
Maude.  The  first  that  he  was  a  Scotchman,  who 
are  of  all  men  the  least  likely  to  wear  their  hearts 


NO.  5,  CHEYNE  ROW. 


301 


upon  their  sleeves;  the  other  that  his  mind  was 
always  grappling  with  some  far-away  subject,  which 
made  him  forget  the  smaller  things  close  by  him.” 

“  But  the  smaller  things  are  everything  to  a 
woman,”  said  Maude.  “  If  ever  you  forget  those 
smaller  things,  sir,  to  be  as  courteous  to  your  wife 
as  you  would  be  to  any  other  lady,  to  be  loving 
and  thoughtful  and  sympathetic,  it  will  be  no  con¬ 
solation  to  me  to  know  that  you  have  written  the 
grandest  book  that  ever  was.  I  should  just  hate 
that  book,  and  I  believe  that  in  her  inmost  heart 
this  poor  lady  hated  all  the  books  that  had  taken 
her  husband  away  from  her.  I  wonder  if  their 
house  is  still  standing.” 

“  Certainly  it  is.  Would  you  like  to  visit  it?  ” 

“  I  don’t  think  there  is  anything  I  should  like 
more.” 

“  Why,  Maude,  we  are  getting  quite  a  distin¬ 
guished  circle  of  acquaintances!  Mr.  Pepys  last 
month,  and  now  the  Carlyles.  Well,  we  could  not 
spend  a  Saturday  afternoon  better,  so  if  you  will 
meet  me  to-morrow  at  Charing  Cross  we  will  have 
a  cosey  little  lunch  together  at  Gatti’s,  and  then 
go  down  to  Chelsea. 

Maude  was  a  rigid  economist,  and  so  was  Frank 
in  his  way,  for  with  the  grand  self-respect  of  the 


302 


A  DUET. 


middle  classes  the  thought  of  debt  was  unendur¬ 
able  to  them.  A  cab  in  preference  to  a  ’bus  gave 
both  of  them  a  feeling  of  dissipation,  but  none  the 
less  they  treated  themselves  to  one  on  the  occasion 
of  this,  their  little  holiday.  It  is  a  delightful  thing 
to  snuggle  up  in,  is  a  hansom,  but  in  order  to  be 
really  trim  and  comfortable  one  has  to  put  one’s 
arm  round  one’s  companion’s  waist.  No  one  can 
observe  it  there,  for  the  vehicle  is  built  upon  intel¬ 
ligent  principles.  The  cabman,  it  is  true,  can  over¬ 
look  you  through  a  hole  in  the  roof.  This  cabman 
did  so,  and  chuckled  in  his  cravat.  “  If  that  cove’s 
wife  could  see  him — huddup,  then!  ”  said  the  cab¬ 
man. 

He  was  an  intelligent  cabman,  too,  for,  having 
heard  Frank  say  “  Thomas  Carlyle’s  house,”  after 
giving  the  address  5,  Cheyne  Row,  he  pulled  up  on 
the  Thames  Embankment.  Right  ahead  of  them 
was  Chelsea  Bridge,  seen  through  a  dim,  soft 
London  haze,  monstrous,  Cyclopean,  giant  arches 
springing  over  a  vague  river  of  molten  metal,  the 
whole  daintily  blurred,  as  though  out  of  focus. 
The  glamour  of  the  London  haze,  what  is  there 
upon  earth  so  beautiful!  But  it  was  not  to  admire 
that  that  the  cabman  had  halted. 

“  I  beg  your  pardin,  sir,”  said  he,  in  the  softly 
insinuating  way  of  the  cockney,  “  but  I  thought 


NO.  5,  CHEYNE  ROW. 


303 


that  maybe  the  lidy  woiild  like  to  see  Mr.  Carlyle’s 
statue.  That’s  ’im,  sir,  a*sittin’  in  the  overcoat 
with  the  book  in  ’is  ’and.” 

Frank  and  Maude  got  out  and  entered  the  small 
railed  garden,  in  the  centre  of  which  the  pedestal 
rose.  It  was  very  simple  and  plain — an  old  man 
in  a  dressing-gown,  with  homely,  worn-out  boots, 
a  book  upon  his  knee,  his  eyes  and  thoughts  far 
away.  No  more  simple  statue  in  all  London,  but 
human  to  a  surprising  degree.  They  stood  for  five 
minutes  and  stared  at  it. 

u  Well,”  said  Frank  at  last,  “  small  as  it  is,  I 
think  it  is  worthy  of  the  man.” 

“  It  is  so  natural!  ” 

“  You  can  see  him  think.  By  Jove,  it  is  splen¬ 
did!  ”  Frank  had  enough  of  the  true  artist  to  be 
able  to  feel  that  rush  of  enthusiasm  which  adequate 
work  should  cause.  That  old  man,  with  his  head 
shamefully  defiled  by  birds,  was  a  positive  joy  to 
him.  Among  the  soulless,  pompous,  unspeakable 
London  statues  here  at  last  there  was  one  over 
which  one  might  linger. 

“  What  other  one  is  there?  ” 

“  Gordon,  in  Trafalgar  Square.” 

“  Well,  Gordon,  perhaps.  But  our  Nelsons 
and  Napiers  and  Havelocks — to  think  that  we 
could  do  no  better  than  that  for  them!  Now, 


304 


A  DUET. 


dear,  we  have  seen  the  man — let  us  look  at  the 
house.” 

It  had  evidently  been  an  old-fashioned  build¬ 
ing  when  first  they  came  to  it — 1708  was  the  date 
at  the  corner  of  the  street.  Six  or  seven  drab- 
coloured,  flat-chested,  dim-windowed  houses  stood 
in  a  line — theirs  wedged  in  the  middle  of  them. 
A  poor  medallion  with  a  profile  head  of  him  had 
been  clumsily  let  into  the  wall.  Several  worn  steps 
led  to  the  thin  high  door  with  an  old-fashioned 
fanlight  above  it.  Frank  rang  the  bell,  and  a 
buxom,  cheerful  matron  came  at  the  call. 

“  Names  in  this  book,  sir — and  address,  if  you 
please,”  said  the  cheery  matron.  “  One  shilling 
each.  Thank  you,  sir!  First  door  to  the  left,  sir! 
This  was  the  dining  room,  sir - ” 

But  Frank  had  come  to  a  dead  stop  in  the  dim, 
dull,  wood-panelled  hall.  In  front  of  them  rose 
the  stairs  with  old-fashioned  banisters,  cracked, 
warped,  and  dusty. 

u  It’s  awful  to  think  of,  Maude,  awful!  To 
think  that  she  ran  up  those  stairs  as  a  youngish 
woman,  that  he  took  them  two  at  a  time  as  an 
active  man ;  and  then  that  they  hobbled  and  limped 
down  them,  old  and  weary  and  broken,  and  now 
both  dead  and  gone  forever,  and  the  stairs  standing, 
the  very  rails,  the  very  treads — I  don’t  know  that 


NO.  5,  CHEYNE  ROW. 


305 


I  ever  felt  so  strongly  what  bubbles  of  the  air  we 
are,  so  fragile,  so  utterly  dissolved  when  the  prick 
comes.” 

“  How  could  they  be  happy  in  such  a  house?  ” 
said  Maude.  “  I  can  feel  that  there  have  been  sor¬ 
row  and  trouble  here.  There  is  an  atmosphere  of 
gloom.” 

The  matron  attendant  approved  of  emotion,  but 
in  its  due  order.  One  should  be  affected  in  the 
dining  room  first,  and  then  in  the  hall.  And  so 
at  her  summons  they  followed  her  into  the  long, 
low,  quaint  room  in  which  this  curious  couple  had 
lived  their  everyday  life.  Little  of  the  furniture 
was  left,  and  the  walls  were  lined  with  collected 
pictures  bearing  upon  the  life  of  the  Carlyles. 

“  There’s  the  fireplace  that  he  smoked  his  pipe 
up,”  said  Frank. 

“  Why  up  the  fireplace?  ” 

u  She  did  not  like  the  smell  in  the  room.  He 
often  at  night  took  his  friends  down  into  the 
kitchen.” 

/ 

“  Fancy  my  driving  you  into  the  kitchen!  ” 

“  Well,  the  habit  of  smoking  was  looked  upon 
much  less  charitably  at  that  time.” 

“  And,  besides,  he  smoked  clay  pipes,”  said  the 
matron.  “  This  is  considered  a  good  print  of  Mrs. 
Carlyle.” 


306 


A  DUET. 


It  was  a  peaky,  eager  face,  with  a  great  spirit 
looking  out  of  it,  and  possibilities  of  passion  both 
for  good  and  evil  in  the  keen,  alert  features.  Just 
beside  her  was  the  dour,  grim  outline  of  her  hus¬ 
band.  Their  life  histories  were  in  those  two  por¬ 
traits. 

“  Poor  dear!  ”  said  Maude. 

“  Ay,  you  may  say  so,”  said  the  matron,  whose 
accent  showed  that  she  was  from  the  north  of  the 
Tweed.  “  He  was  gey  ill  to  live  wi\  His  own 
mither  said  so.  How  what  think  you  that  room 
was  for?  ” 

It  was  little  larger  than  a  cupboard,  without 
wdndow  or  skylight,  opening  out  of  the  end  of  the 
dining  room. 

1  can  t  imagine. 

“  Well,  sir,  it  was  the  powdering  room  in  the 
days  when  folk  wore  wigs.  The  powder  made  such 
a  mess  that  they  just  had  a  room  for  nothing  else. 
There  was  a  hole  in  the  door,  and  the  man  put 
his  head  through  the  hole,  and  the  barber  on  the 
other  side  powdered  him  out  of  the  flour  dredger.” 

It  was  curious  to  be  brought  back  in  this  fashion 
to  those  far-off  days,  and  to  suddenly  realize  how 
many  other  people  had  played  their  tragi-comedies 
within  these  walls.  Wigs!  Only  the  dressy  peo¬ 
ple  wore  wigs.  So  people  of  fashion  in  the  days 


NO.  5,  CHEYNE  ROW. 


307 


of  the  early  Georges  trod  these  same  rooms  where 
Carlyle  grumbled  and  his  wife  fretted.  And  they, 
too,  had  grumbled  and  fretted— or  worse,  perhaps. 
It  was  a  ghostly  old  house. 

“  This/’  said  the  matron  when  they  had  passed 
up  the  stair,  “  used  to  be  the  drawing-room.  That’s 
their  sofa.” 

“  Not  the  sofa,”  said  Frank. 

“  Yes,  sir,  the  sofa  that  is  mentioned  in  the 
letters.” 

“  She  was  so  proud  of  it,  Maude!  Gave  eight¬ 
een  shillings  for  it,  and  covered  and  stuffed  it  her¬ 
self.  And  that,  I  suppose,  is  the  screen.  She  was 
a  great  housekeeper — brought  up  a  spoiled  child, 
according  to  her  own  account,  but  a  great  house¬ 
keeper,  all  the  same.  What’s  that  writing  in  the 
case?  ” 

“  It  is  the  history  that  he  was  at  work  on  when 
he  died — something  about  the  kings  of  Norway, 
sir.  Those  are  his  corrections  in  blue.” 

“  I  can’t  read  them.” 

“  No  more  could  any  one  else,  sir.  Peril  a  ps 
that’s  why  the  book  has  never  been  published. 
Those  are  the  portraits  of  the  kings  of  Prussia 
about  whom  he  wrote  a  book.” 

Frank  looked  with  interest  at  the  old  engrav¬ 
ings,  one  of  the  schoolmaster  face  of  the  great 


308 


A  DUET. 


Frederick,  the  other  of  the  froglike  features  of 
Frederick  William,  the  half-mad  recruiter  of  the 
big  Potsdam  Grenadiers.  When  he  had  finished, 
the  matron  had  gone  down  to  open  the  door,  and 
they  were  alone.  Maude’s  hand  grasped  his. 

“  Is  it  not  strange,  dear?  Here  they  lived, 
the  most  talented  couple  in  the  world,  and  yet  with 
all  their  wisdom  they  missed  what  we  have  got — 
what  perhaps  that  good  woman  who  showed  us 
round  has  got — the  only  thing,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
that  is  really  worth  living  for.  What  are  all  the 
wit  and  all  the  learning  and  all  the  insight  into 
things  compared  to  love  ?  ” 

“  By  Jove!  little  woman,  in  all  this  house  of 
wise  sayings  no  wiser  or  deeper  saying  has  been 
said  than  that.  Well,  thank  God,  we  have  that, 
anyhow!  ”  And  he  kissed  his  wife  while  six  grand 
electors  of  Brandenburg  and  kings  of  Prussia 
looked  fiercely  out  upon  them  from  the  wall. 

They  sat  down  together  in  two  old  chairs  in 
the  window  and  they  looked  out  into  the  dingy 
street,  and  Frank  tried  to  recount  all  the  great 
men — “  the  other  great  men,”  as  Maude  said,  half 
chaffing  and  half  earnest — who  had  looked  through 
those  panes.  Tennyson,  Buskin,  Emerson,  Mill, 
Fronde,  Massini,  Leigh  Hunt — he  had  got  so  far 
when  the  matron  returned. 


NO.  5,  CHEYNE  ROW. 


309 


There  was  a  case  in  the  comer  with  some  of 
the  wreckage  from  these  vanished  vessels — notes 
from  old  Goethe  in  a  singularly  neat  boyish  writ¬ 
ing,  inscribed  upon  little  ornamented  cards.  Here, 
too,  were  small  inscriptions  which  had  lain  upon 
presents  from  Carlyle  to  his  wife.  It  was  pleasant 
among  all  that  jangling  of  the  past  to  think  of  the 
love  which  had  written  them,  and  that  other  love 
which  had  so  carefully  preserved  them.  On  one 
was  written :  “  All  good  attend  my  darling  through 
this  gulf  of  time,  and  through  the  long  ocean  it 
is  leading  to.  Amen.  Amen.  T.  C.”  On  an¬ 
other,  dated  1850,  and  attached  evidently  to  some 
birthday  present,  was:  “  Many  years  to  my  poor 
little  Jeannie,  and  may  the  worst  of  them  be 
past!  Ho  good  that  is  in  me  to  give  her  shall 
ever  be  wanting  while  I  live.  May  God  bless 
her!  ”  How  strange  that  this  apostle  of  reticence 
should  have  such  privacies  as  these  laid  open  be¬ 
fore  the  curious  public  within  so  few  years  of  his 
death ! 

“  This  is  her  bedroom/’  said  the  matron. 

“  And  here  is  the  old  red  bed!  ”  cried  Frank. 
It  looked  bare  and  gaunt  and  dreary  with  its  uncur¬ 
tained  posts. 

“  The  bed  belonged  to  Mrs.  Carlyle’s  mother,” 
the  matron  explained.  “  It’s  the  same  bed  that 


310 


A  DUET. 


Mrs.  Carlyle  talks  about  in  her  letters  when  she 
says  how  she  pulled  it  to  pieces.” 

“  Why  did  she  pull  it  to  pieces?”  asked  Maude. 

“  Better  not  inquire,  dear.” 

“  Indeed,  you’re  right,  sir.  If  you  get  them 
into  these  old  houses,  it  is  very  hard  to  get  them 
out.  A  cleaner  woman  than  Mrs.  Carlyle  never 
came  out  of  Scotland.  This  little  room  behind  was 
his  dressing  room.  There’s  his  stick  in  the  corner. 
Look  what’s  written  upon  the  window!  ” 

Decidedly  it  was  a  ghostly  house.  Scratched 
upon  one  of  the  panes  with  a  diamond  was  the  fol¬ 
lowing  piece  of  information: 

t 

“  John  Llarbel  Knowles  cleaned  all  the  win¬ 
dows  in  this  house  and  painted  part  in  the  eight¬ 
eenth  year  of  age.  March  7th,  1794.” 

“  Who  was  he?  ”  asked  Maude. 

“  Hobody  knows,  miss.”  It  was  characteristic 
of  Maude  that  she  was  so  gentle  in  her  bearing  that 
every  one  always  took  it  for  granted  that  she  was 
miss. 

Frank  examined  the  writing  carefully. 

“  He  was  the  son  of  the  house,  and  a  young 
aristocrat  who  had  never  done  a  stroke  of  work 
before  in  his  life,”  said  he. 

The  matron  was  surprised. 


NO.  5,  CHEYNE  ROW. 


311 


“  What  makes  you  say  that,  sir?  ” 

“  What  would  a  workman  do  with  such  a  name 
,as  John  Harbel  Knowles? — or  with  a  diamond  ring, 
for  that  matter?  And  who  would  dare  to  disfigure 
a  window  so  if  he  were  not  of  the  family?  And 
why  should  he  be  so  proud  of  his  work  unless  work 
was  a  new  and  wondrous  thing  to  him?  To  paint 
part  of  the  windows  also  sounds  like  the  amateur, 
and  not  the  workman.  So  I  repeat  that  it  was  the 
first  achievement  of  the  son  of  the  house.” 

“  Well,  indeed,  I  dare  say  you  are  right,  though 
I  never  thought  of  it  before,”  said  the  matron. 
“  Now  this,  up  here,  is  Carlyle’s  own  room,  in 
which  he  slept  for  forty-seven  years.  In  the  case 
is  a  cast  of  his  head  taken  after  death.” 

It  was  strange  and  rather  ghastly  to  see  a  plas¬ 
ter  head  in  this  room,  where  the  head  of  flesh  had 
so  often  lain.  Maude  and  Frank  stood  beside  it 
and  gazed  long  and  silently,  while  the  matron,  half 
bored  and  half  sympathetic,  waited  for  them  to 
move  on.  It  was  an  aquiline  face,  very  different 
from  any  picture  which  they  had  seen,  sunken 
cheeks,  an  old  man’s  toothless  mouth,  a  hawk  nose, 
a  hollow  eye — the  gaunt  timbers  of  what  had  once 
been  a  goodly  house.  There  was  repose,  and  some¬ 
thing  of  surprise  also,  in  the  features;  also  a  very 
subtle  serenity  and  dignity. 


312 


A  DUET. 


“  The  distance  from  the  ear  to  the  forehead  is 
said  to  he  only  equalled  by  Napoleon  and  by  Glad¬ 
stone.  That’s  what  they  say,”  said  the  matron, 
with  Scotch  caution. 

“  It’s  the  face  of  a  noble  man  when  all  is  said 
and  done,”  said  Frank.  “  I  believe  that  the  true 
Thomas  Carlyle  without  the  dyspepsia,  and  the 
true  Jane  Welsh  without  the  nerves,  are  knowing 
and  loving  each  other  in  some  further  life.” 

“  It  is  sweet  to  think  so!  ”  cried  Maude.  “  Oh, 
I  do  hope  that  it  is  so!  How  dear  death  would  be 
if  we  could  only  be  certain  of  that!  ” 

The  matron  smiled  complacently  in  the  supe¬ 
rior  wisdom  of  the  Shorter  Catechism.  “  There  is 

% 

neither  marriage  nor  giving  in  marriage,”  said  she, 
shaking  her  head.  “  This  is  the  spare  bedroom, 
sir,  where  Mr.  Emerson  slept  when  he  was  here. 
And  now  if  you  will  step  this  way  I  will  show  you 
the  study.” 

It  was  the  singular  room  which  Carlyle  had 
constructed  in  the  hopes  that  he  could  shut  out 
all  the  noises  of  the  universe,  the  crowing  of  cocks, 
and  the  jingling  of  a  young  lady’s  five-finger  exer¬ 
cise  in  particular.  It  had  cost  him  a  hundred  odd 
pounds,  and  had  ended  in  being  unendurably  hot 
in  summer,  impossibly  cold  in  winter,  and  so  con¬ 
structed  acoustically  that  it  reverberated  every 


i 


NO.  5,  CHEYNE  ROW. 


313 


sound  in  the  neighbourhood.  For  once  even  his 
wild  and  whirling  words  could  hardly  match  the 
occasion — not  all  his  “  kraft  sprachen  ”  would  be 
too  much.  For  the  rest,  it  was  at  least  a  roomy 
and  lofty  apartment,  with  space  for  many  books  and 
for  an  irritable  man  to  wander  to  and  fro.  Prints 
there  were  of  many  historical  notables,  and  slips 
of  letters  and  of  memoranda  in  a  long  glass  case. 

“  That  is  one  of  his  clay  pipes,”  said  the  ma¬ 
tron.  “  He  had  them  all  sent  through  to  him  from 
Glasgow.  And  that  is  the  pen  with  which  he 
wrote  Frederic.” 

It  was  a  worn,  stubby  old  quill,  much  the  worse 
for  its  monstrous  task.  It  at  least  of  all  quill  pens 
might  rest  content  with  having  done  its  work  in 
the  world.  Some  charred  paper  beside  it  caught 
Frank’s  eye. 

“  Oh,  look,  Maude!  ”  he  cried.  “  This  is  a  lit¬ 
tle  bit  of  the  burned  French  Revolution.” 

“  Oh,  I  remember!  He  lent  the  only  copy  to 
a  friend,  and  it  was  burned  by  mistake.” 

“  What  a  blow!  What  a  frightful  blow!  And 
to  think  that  his  first  comment  to  his  wife  was, 
‘Well,  Mill,  poor  fellow!  is  very  much  cut  up 
about  this.’  There  is  Carlyle  at  his  best.  And 
here  is  actually  a  shred  of  the  old  manuscript.  How 

beautifully  he  wrote  in  those  days!  ” 

21 


314 


A  DUET. 


“  Read  this,  sir,”  said  the  matron. 

It  was  part  of  a  letter  from  Carlyle  to  his  pub¬ 
lisher  about  his  ruined  work.  “  Do  not  pity  me,” 
said  he.  “  Forward  me  rather  as  a  runner  that  is 
tripped  but  will  not  lie  there,  but  run  and  run 
again.” 

“  See  what  positive  misfortune  can  do  for  a 
man,”  said  Frank.  “  It  raised  him  to  a  hero.  And 
yet  he  could  not  stand  the  test  of  a  crowing  cock. 
How  infinitely  complex  is  the  human  soul!  How 
inimitably  great  and  how  pitiably  small!  How, 
if  ever  I  have  a  study  of  my  own,  this  is  what  I 
want  engraved  upon  the  wall.  This  alone  is  well 
worth  our  pilgrimage  to  Chelsea.” 

It  was  a  short  exclamation  which  had  caught 
his  eye: 

“Rest!  Rest!  Shall  I  not  have  all  eternity 
to  rest  in  ?  ”  That  serene  plaster  face  down  yonder 
gave  force  to  the  brave  words.  Frank  copied  them 
down  on  the  back  of  one  of  Maude’s  cards. 

And  now  they  had  finished  the  rooms;  but  the 
matron,  catching  a  glow  from  these  enthusiastic 
pilgrims,  had  yet  other  things  to  show  them.  There 
was  the  back  garden.  Here  was  the  green  pottery 
seat  upon  which  the  unphilosophic  philosopher  had 
smoked  his  pipe — a  singularly  cold  and  uncomfort¬ 
able  perch.  And  here  was  where  Mrs.  Carlyle  had 


NO.  5,  CHEYNE  ROW. 


315 


tried  to  build  a  tent  and  to  imagine  herself  in  the 
country.  And  here  was  the  famous  walnut  tree — 
or  at  least  the  stumpy  bole  thereof.  And  here 
was  where  the  dog  Nero  was  buried,  best  known 
of  small  white  mongrels. 

And,  last  of  all,  there  was  the  subterranean  and 
gloomy  kitchen  in  which  there  had  lived  that  long 
succession  of  serving  maids  of  whom  we  gain  ghad- 
owy  glimpses  in  the  Letters  and  in  the  Journal. 
Poor  souls !  dwellers  in  the  gloom,  working  so  hard 
for  others,  so  bitterly  reviled  when  by  chance  some 
weakness  of  humanity  comes  to  break  for  an  instant 
the  routine  of  their  constant  labour,  so  limited  in 
their  hopes  and  in  their  pleasures,  they  are  of  all 
folk  upon  this  planet  those  for  whom  a  man’s  heart 
may  most  justly  soften.  So  said  Frank  as  he  gazed 
around  him  in  the  dark-cornered  room.  “  And 
never  one  word  of  sympathy  for  them,  or  of  any¬ 
thing  save  scorn  in  all  his  letters.  His  pen  up¬ 
holding  human  dignity,  but  where  was  the  dig¬ 
nity  of  these  poor  girls  for  whom  he  lias  usually 
one  bitter  line  of  biography  in  his  notes  to  his  wife’s 
letters?  It’s  the  worst  thing  I  have  against  him.” 

“  Jemima  wouldn’t  have  stood  it,”  said  Maude. 

It  was  pleasant  to  be  out  in  the  open  air  once 
more,  but  they  were  in  the  pine  groves  pf  Wo¬ 
king  before  Maude  had  quite  shaken  off  the  gloom 


316 


A  DUET. 


of  that  dark,  ghost-haunted  house.  “  After  all,  you 
are  only  twenty-seven/’  she  remarked  as  they 
walked  up  from  the  station.  She  had  a  way  of. 
occasionally  taking  a  subject  by  the  middle  in  that 
way. 

“  AVhat  then,  dear?  ” 

“  When  Carlyle  was  only  twenty-seven  I  don’t 
suppose  he  knew  he  was  going  to  do  all  this.” 

“  No,  I  don’t  suppose  so.” 

“  And  his  wife — if  he  was  married  then — 
would  feel  as  I  do  to  you.” 

“  No  doubt.” 

“  Then  what  guarantee  have  I  that  you  won’t 
do  it,  after  all?  ” 

“  Do  what?  ” 

“  Why,  turn  out  a  second  Carlyle.” 

“  Hear  me  swear!”  cried  Frank,  and  they 
turned,  laughing,  into  their  own  little  gateway  at 
the  Lindens. 


XXI. 


THE  LAST  NOTE  OF  THE  DUET. 

Our  young  married  couples  may  feel  that  two 
is  company  and  three  is  none,  but  there  comes  a 
little  noisy  intruder  to  break  into  their  sweet  in¬ 
timacy.  The  coming  of  the  third  is  the  beginning 
of  a  new  life  for  them  as  well  as  for  it — a  life 
which  is  more  useful  and  more  permanent,  but 
never  so  concentrated  as  before.  That  little  wrin¬ 
kled  pink  thing  with  the  blinking  eyes  will  divert 
some  of  the  love  and  some  of  the  attention,  and 
the  very  trouble  which  its  coming  has  caused  will 
set  its  mother’s  heart  yearning  over  it.  Not  so 
the  man.  Some  vague  resentment  mixes  with  his 
pride  of  paternity,  and  his  wife’s  sufferings  rankle 
in  his  memory  when  she  has  herself  forgotten  them. 
His  pity,  his  fears,  his  helplessness,  and  his  dis¬ 
comfort  give  him  a  share  in  the  domestic  tragedy. 
It  is  not  without  cause  that  in  some  societies  it  is 
the  man  and  not  the  woman  who  receives  the  con¬ 
dolence  and  the  sympathy. 


317 


318 


A  DUET. 


There  came  a  time  when  Maude  was  bad,  and 
there  came  months  when  she  was  better,  and  then 
there  were  indications  that  a  day  was  approach¬ 
ing  the  very  thought  of  which  was  a  shadow  upon 
her  husband’s  life.  For  her  part,  with  the  stead¬ 
fast,  gentle  courage  of  a  woman,  she  faced  the 
future  with  a  sweet  serenity.  But  to  him  it  was  a 
nightmare — an  actual  nightmare  which  brought 
him  up  damp  and  quivering  in  those  gray  hours 
of  the  dawn  when  dark  shadows  fall  upon  the 
spirit  of  man.  He  had  a  steady  nerve  for  that 
which  affected  himself — a  nerve  which  would  keep 
him  quiet  and  motionless  in  a  dentist’s  chair — but 
what  philosophy  or  hardihood  can  steel  one  against 
the  pain  which  those  whom  we  love  have  to  en¬ 
dure?  He  fretted  and  chafed,  and  always  with  the 
absurd  delusion  that  his  fretting  and  chafing  were 
successfully  concealed.  A  hundred  failures  never 
convince  a  man  how  impossible  it  is  to  deceive  a 
woman  who  loves  him.  Maude  watched  him  de¬ 
murely  and  made  her  plans. 

“  I)o  you  know,  dear,”  said  she  one  evening, 
“  if  you  can  get  a  week  of  your  holidays  now,  I 
think  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  for  you  to 
accept  that  invitation  of  Mr.  Mildmay’s  and  spend 
a  few  days  in  golfing  at  Horwich?  ” 

Frank  stared  at  her  open-eyed. 


THE  LAST  NOTE  OP  THE  DUET. 


319 


“What!  Now?” 

t 

“  Yes,  dear,  now  at  once.” 

“  But  now  of  all  times !  ” 

Maude  looked  at  him  with  that  glance  of  abso¬ 
lute  obvious  candour  which  a  woman  never  uses 
unless  she  has  intent  to  deoeive. 

“  Yes,  dear;  but  only  next  week.  I  thought 
it  would  brace  you  up  for — well,  for  the  week  after¬ 
ward.” 

“  You  think  the  week  afterward?  ” 

“  Yes,  dear.  It  would  help  me  so  if  I  knew 
that  you  were  in  your  best  form.” 

“  I !  What  can  it  matter  what  form  I  am  in? 
But,  in  any  case,  it  is  out  of  the  question.” 

“  But  you  could  get  leave.” 

“  Oh,  yes,  easily  enough.” 

“  Then  do  go.” 

“  And  leave  you  at  such  a  time!  ” 

“No,  no;  you  would  be  back.” 

“  You  can’t  be  so  sure  of  that.  No,  Maude, 
I  should  never  forgive  myself.  Such  an  idea  would 
never  enter  my  head.” 

“  But  for  my  sake - ” 

“  That’s  enough,  Maude.  It  is  settled.” 

Master  Trank  had  a  heavy  foot  when  he  did 
bring  it  down,  and  his  wife  recognised  a  decisive 
thud  this  time.  With  a  curious  double  current  of 


A  DUET. 


320 

~'A 

feeling  she  was  pleased  and  disappointed  at  the 
same  time,  but  more  pleased  than  disappointed,  so 
she  kissed  the  marrer  of  her  plots. 

u  What  an  obstinate  old  boy  it  is!  But,  of 
course,  you  know  best,  and  I  should  much  rather 
have  you  at  home.  As  you  say,  one  can  never  be 
certain.” 

In  a  conflict  of  wits  the  woman  may  lose  a 
battle,  but  the  odds  are  that  she  will  win  the  cam¬ 
paign.  The  man  dissipates  over  many  things, 
while  she  concentrates  upon  the  one.  Maude  had 
made  up  her  mind  absolutely  upon  one  point,  and 
she  meant  to  attain  it.  She  tried  here,  she  tried 
there,  through  a  friend,  through  his  mother,  but 
Frank  was  still  immovable.  The  ordeal  coming 
upon  herself  never  disturbed  her  for  an  instant. 
But  the  thought  that  Frank  would  suffer  was  un¬ 
endurable.  She  put  herself  in  his  place,  and  real¬ 
ized  what  it  would  be  to  him  if  he  were  in  the 
house  at  such  a  time.  With  many  cunning  devices 
she  tried  to  lure  him  off,  but  still  in  his. stubborn 
way  he  refused  to  be  misled.  And  then  suddenly 
she  realized  that  it  was  too  late. 

It  was  early  one  morning  that  the  conviction 
came  home  to  her,  but  he  at  her  side  knew  noth¬ 
ing  of  it.  He  came  up  to  her  before  he  left  for 
the  city. 


THE  LAST  NOTE  OF  THE  DUET. 


321 


“  You  have  not  eaten  anything,  dear.” 

“  No,  Frank,  I  am  not  hungry.” 

u  Perhaps  after  you  get  up - ” 

“  Well,  dear,  I  thought  of  staying  in  bed.” 

“  You  are  not - ” 

“  What  nonsense,  dear !  I  want  to  keep  very 
quiet  until  next  week,  when  I  may  need  all  my 
strength.” 

“  Dear  girl,  I  would  gladly  give  ten  years  of 
my  life  to  have  next  week  past.” 

“  Silly  old  boy!  But  I  do  think  it  would  be 
wiser  if  I  were  to  keep  in  bed.” 

“  Yes,  yes,  do.” 

“  I  have  a  little  headache.  Nothing  to  speak 
of,  but  just  a  little.” 

“  Don’t  you  think  Dr.  J ordan  had  better  give 
you  something  for  it?  ” 

“  Do  you  think  so?  Well,  just  as  you  like. 
You  might  call  as  you  pass,  and  tell  him  to  step 
up.” 

And  so  upon  a  false  mission  the  doctor  was 
summoned  to  her  side,  but  found  a  very  real 
mission  waiting  for  him  when  he  got  there.  She 
had  written  a  note  for  Frank  the  moment  that 
he  had  left  the  house,  and  he  found  both  it  and 
a  conspiracy  of  silence  waiting  for  him  when 
he  returned  in  the  late  afternoon.  The  note 


322 


A  DUET. 


was  upon  the  hall  table,  and  he  eagerly  tore  it 
open. 

“  My  dear  boy,”  said  this  mendacious  epistle, 
“  my  head  is  still  rather  bad,  and  Dr.  J ordan 
thought  that  it  would  be  wiser  if  I  were  to  have  an 
undisturbed  rest,  but  I  will  send  down  to  you  when 
I  feel  better.  Until  then  I  had  best  perhaps  re¬ 
main  alone.  Mr.  Harrison  sent  round  to  say  that 
he  would  come  to  help  you  to  pot  the  bulbs,  so  that 
will  give  you  something  to  do.  Don’t  bother  about 
me,  for  I  only  want  a  little  rest.  Maude.” 

It  seemed  very  unnatural  to  him  to  come  back 
and  not  to  hear  the  swift  rustle  of  the  dress  which 
followed  always  so  quickly  upon  the  creak  of  his 
latch  key  that  they  might  have  been  the  same 
sound.  The  hall  and  dining  room  seemed  un- 
homely  without  the  bright,  welcoming  face.  He 
wandered  about  in  a  discontented  fashion  upon  his 
tiptoes,  and  then,  looking  through  the  window,  he 
saw  Harrison,  his  neighbour,  coming  up  the  path 
with  a  straw  basket  in  his  hand.  He  opened  the 
door  for  him,  with  his  finger  upon  his  lips. 

“  Don’t  make  a  row,  Harrison,”  said  he.  “  My 
wife’s  bad.” 

Harrison  whistled  softly. 

“  Hot - ” 


THE  LAST  NOTE  OF  THE  DUET.  323 

* 

“  No,  no;  not  that.  Only  a  headache,  but  she 
is  not  to  be  disturbed.  We  expect  that  next  week. 
Come  in  here  and  smoke  a  pipe  with  me.  It  was 
very  kind  of  you  to  bring  the  bulbs.” 

“  I  am  going  back  for  some  more.” 

“  Wait  a  little.  You  can  go  back  presently. 
Sit  down  and  light  your  pipe.  There  is  some  one 
moving  about  upstairs.  It  must  be  that  heavy- 
footed  Jemima.  I  hope  she  won’t  wake  Maude 
up.  I  suppose  one  must  expect  such  attacks  at  such 
a  time.” 

“  Yes,  iny  wife  was  just  the  same.  No,  thank 
you,  I’ve  just  had  some  tea.  You  look  worried, 
Crosse.  Don’t  take  things  too  hard.” 

“  I  can’t  get  the  thought  of  next  week  out 
of  my  head.  If  anything  goes  wrong — -well,  there, 
what  can  I  do?  I  never  knew  how  a  man’s  nerves 
may  be  harrowed  before.  And  she  is  such  a 
saint,  Harrison — such  an  absolutely  unselfish  saint! 
You’ll  never  guess  what  she  tried  to  do.” 

“  What,  then?  ” 

( 

“  She  knew  what  it  would  mean  to  me — what 
it  will  mean  to  me — to  sit  here  in  impotence  while 
she  goes  through  this  horrible  business.  She 
guessed  in  some  extraordinary  way  what  my  secret 
feelings  were  about  it.  And  she  actually  tried  to 
deceive  me  as  to  when  it  was  to  occur — tried  to 


324 


A  DUET. 


get  me  out  of  the  house  on  one  pretext  or  another 
until  it  was  all  over.  That  was  her  plot,  and,  by 
Jove!  she  tried  it  so  cleverly  that  she  would  have 
managed  it  if  something  had  not  put  me  on  my 
guard.  She  was  a  little  too  eager,  unnaturally  so, 
and  I  saw  through  her  game.  But  think  of  it,  the 
absolute  unselfishness  of  it!  To  consider  me  at 
such  a  time,  and  to  face  her  trouble  alone  and  un¬ 
supported  in  order  to  make  it  easier  for  me!  She 
wanted  me  to  go  to  Norwich  and  play  golf.” 

“  She  must  have  thought  you  pretty  guileless, 
Crosse,  to  be  led  away  so  easily.” 

“  Yes,  it  was  a  hopeless  attempt  to  deceive  me 
on  such  a  point,  or  to  dream  for  an  instant  that  my 
instincts  would  not  tell  me  when  she  had  need 
of  me.  But  none  the  less  it  was  beautiful  and  char¬ 
acteristic.  You  don’t  mind  my  talking  of  these 
things,  Harrison?  ” 

“  My  dear  chap,  it  is  just  what  you  need.  You 
have  been  bottling  things  up  too  much.  Your 
health  will  break  down  under  it.  After  all,  it  is 
not  so  serious  as  all  that.  The  danger  is  very  much 
exaggerated.” 

“  You  think  so?  ” 

“  I’ve  had  the  experience  twice  now.  You’ll 
go  to  the  city  some  fine  morning  and  when  you 
come  back  the  whole  thing  will  be  over.” 


THE  LAST  NOTE  OF  THE  DUET. 


325 


"  Indeed  it  won’t !  I  have  made  arrangements 
at  the  office,  and  from  the  hour  that  she  first  seems 
bad  I  will  never  stir  from  the  house.  For  all  she 
may  say,  I  know  very  well  that  it  gives  her  strength 
and  courage  to  feel  that  I  am  there.” 

“  You  may  not  know  that  it  is  coming  on.” 

Frank  laughed  incredulously. 

“  We’ll  see  about  that,”  said  he.  “  And  you 
think  from  your  experience,  Harrison,  that  it  is  not 
so  very  bad,  after  all?  ” 

“  Oh,  no.  It  soon  passes.” 

“  Soon!  What  do  you  mean  by  soon?  ” 

“  Jordan  was  there  six  hours  the  first  time.” 

“  Good  God!  Six  hours!  ”  Frank  wiped  his 
forehead.  “  They  must  have  seemed  six  years.” 

“  They  were  rather  long.  I  kept  on  working 
in  the  garden.  That’s  the  tip!  Keep  on  doing 
something,  and  it  helps  you  along  wonderfully.” 

“  That’s  a  good  suggestion,  Harrison.  What  a 
curious  smell  there  is  in  the  air!  Do  you  notice 
a  sort  of  low,  sweetish,  spirity  kind  of  scent?  Well, 
perhaps  it’s  my  imagination.  I  dare  say  that  my 
nerves  are  a  bit  strung  up  these  days.  But  that 
is  a  capital  idea  of  yours  about  having  some  work 
to  do.  I  should  like  to  work  madly  for  those  hours. 
Have  everything  up  out  of  the  back  garden  and 
plant  it  all  again  in  the  front.” 


326 


A  DUET. 


Harrison  lauglied. 

“  I’ll  tell  you  something  less  heroic,”  said  he. 
“  You  could  keep  all  these  bulbs  and  pot  them 
then.  By  the  way,  I’ll  go  round  and  get  the  others. 
Don’t  bother  about  the  door.  I  will  leave  it  open, 
for  I  won’t  be  five  minutes.” 

“  And  I’ll  put  these  in  the  greenhouse,”  said 
Frank.  He  took  the  basket  of  bulbs  and  he  laid 
them  all  out  on  the  wooden  shelf  of  the  tiny  con¬ 
servatory  which  leaned  against  the  back  of  the 
house.  When  he  came  out  there  was  a  kitten  mak¬ 
ing  a  noise  somewhere.  It  was  a  low  sound,  but 
persistent,  coming  in  burst  after  burst.  He  took 
the  rake  and  jabbed  with  the  handle  among  the 
laurel  bushes  under  their  bedroom  window.  The 
beast  might  waken  Maude,  and  so  it  was  worth 
some  trouble  to  dislodge  it.  He  could  not  see  it, 
but  when  he  had  poked  among  the  bushes  and  cried 
“  Scat!  ”  several  times  the  crying,  died  away,  and 
he  carried  his  empty  baskets  into  the  dining  room. 
There  he  lit  his  pipe  again  and  waited  for  Harri¬ 
son’s  return. 

There  was  that  bothersome  kitten  again.  He 
could  hear  it  mewing  away  somewhere.  It  did  not 
sound  so  loud  as  in  the  garden,  so  perhaps  it  would 
not  matter.  He  felt  very  much  inclined  to  steal 
upstairs  upon  tiptoe  and  see  if  Maude  was  stirring 


THE  LAST  NOTE  OP  THE  DUET.  327 

yet.  After  all,  if  Jemima  or  whoever  it  was  could 
go  clumping  about  in  heavy  boots  over  his  head, 
there  was  no  fear  that  he  could  do  any  harm.  And 
yet  she  had  said  that  she  would  ring  or  send  word 
the  moment  she  could  see  him,  and  so,  perhaps,  he 

had  better  wait  where  he  was.  He  put  his  head 

% 

out  of  the  window  and  cried  “  Shoo!  ”  into  the 
laurel  bushes  several  times.  Then  he  sat  in  the 
armchair  with  his  back  to  the  door.  Steps  came 
heavily  along  the  hall,  and  he  saw  dimly  with  the 
back  comers  of  his  eye  that  some  one  was  in  the 
doorway  carrying  something.  He  thought  that 
really  Harrison  might  have  brought  the  bulbs  in 
more  quietly,  and  so  he  treated  him  with  some  cold¬ 
ness  and  did  not  turn  round  to  him. 

“  Put  it  in  the  outhouse/ ’  said  he. 

“  Why  the  outhouse?  ” 

u  We  keep  them  there.  But  you  can  put  it 
under  the  sideboard,  or  in  the  coal  scuttle,  or  where 
you  like,  as  long  as  you  don’t  make  any  more 
noise.” 

“  Why,  surely,  Crosse - ” 

But  Frank  suddenly  sprang  out  of  his  chair. 
“  I’m  blessed  if  that  infernal  kitten  isn’t  somewhere 
in  the  room!  ” 

And  there  when  he  turned  was  the  grim,  kindly 
face  of  old  Dr.  Jordan  facing  him.  He  carried  in 


328 


A  DUET. 


the  crook  of  his  arm  a  brown  shawl  with  something 
round  and  small  muffled  up  in  it.  There  was  one 
slit  in  front,  and  through  this  came  a  fist  about  the 
size  of  a  marble,  the  thumb  doubled  under  the 
tiny  fingers,  and  the  whole  limb  giving  circular 
waves,  as  if  the  owner  was  cheering  lustily  at  his 
own  successful  arrival.  “  Here  am  I,  good  people, 
hurrah!  hurrah!  hurrah!  ”  cried  the  waving  hand. 
Then,  as  the  slit  in  the  shawl  widened,  Frank  saw 
that  behind  the  energetic  fist  there  was  a  huge  open 
mouth,  a  little  button  of  a  nose,  and  two  eyes  which 
were  so  resolutely  screwed  up  that  it  seemed  as  if 
the  owner  had  made  a  resolution  never  under  any 
circumstances  to  take  the  least  notice  of  this  new 
world  into  which  it  had  been  transported.  Frank 
dropped  his  pipe  and  stood  staring  at  this  appari¬ 
tion. 

“  What!  What’s  that?”  he  gasped. 

“  The  baby! ” 

“Baby!  Whose  baby?” 

“  Your  baby,  of  course.” 

“My  baby!  Where — where  did  you  get  it?” 

Dr.  Jordan  burst  out  laughing. 

“  You  are  like  a  man  who  has  just  been  wak¬ 
ened  out  of  his  sleep,”  said  he.  “  Why,  Crosse, 
your  wife  has  been  bad  all  day,  but  she’s  all  right 
now,  and  here’s  your  son  and  heir — a  finer  lad  of 


THU  LAST  NOTE  OP  THE  DUET. 


329 


the  age,  I  never  saw — fighting  weight  about  seven 
pounds.” 

Frank  was  a  very  proud  man  at  the  roots  of 
his  nature.  He  did  not  readily  give  himself  away. 
Perhaps  if  he  had  been  quite  alone  he  might  at 
that  moment,  as  the  great  wave  of  joy  washed 
through  his  soul,  bearing  all  his  fears  and  forebod¬ 
ings  away  upon  its  crest,  have  dropped  upon  his 
knees  in  prayer.  But  prayer  comes  not  from  the 
knee,  but  from  the  heart,  and  the  whole  strength 
of  his  nature  breathed  itself  out  in  silent  thanks 
to  that  great  Fate  which  goes  its  way  regardless 
either  of  thanks  or  reproaches.  The  doctor  saw  a 
pale,  self-contained  young  man  before  him,  and 
thought  him  strangely  wanting  in  emotion. 

“  Well!  ”  said  he  impatiently.  .. 

“  Is  she  all  right?  ”  } 

“  Yes.  Won’t  you  take  your  son? 99 

“  Could  she  see  me?  ” 

“  I  don’t  suppose  five  minutes  would  do  any 
harm.” 

Dr.  J ordan  said  afterward  that  it  was  three  steps 
which  took  him  up  the  fifteen  stairs.  The  nurse 
who  met  him  at  the  comer  looks  back  on  it  as  the 
escape  of  her  lifetime.  Maude  lay  in  bed  with  a 
face  as  pale  as  the  pillow  which  framed  it.  Her 

lips  were  bloodless  but  smiling. 

22 


330 


A  DUET. 

# 

“  Frank!  ” 

“  My  own  dear  sweet  girlie !  ” 

“  You  never  knew,  did  you,  Frank?  Tell  me 
that  you  never  knew.” 

And  at  that  anxious  question  the  foolish  pride 
which  keeps  the  emotions  of  the  strong  man  buried 
down  in  his  soul,  as  though  they  were  the  least 
honourable  part  of  his  nature,  fell  suddenly  to  noth¬ 
ing,  and  Frank  dropped  with  his  head  beside  the 
white  face  upon  the  pillow  and  lay  with  his  arm 
across  the  woman  whom  he  loved,  and  sobbed  as  he 
had  not  sobbed  since  his  childhood.  Her  cheek 
was  wet  with  his  tears.  He  never  saw  the  doctor 
until  he  came  beside  him  and  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

“  I  think  you  had  better  go  now,”  said  he. 

“  Sorry  to  be  a  fool,  doctor,”  said  Frank,  blush¬ 
ing  hotly  in  his  clumsy  English  fashion.  “  It’s 
just  more  than  I  can  stand.” 

“  Sir,”  the  doctor  answered,  “  I  owe  you  an 
apology,  for  I  had  done  you  an  injustice.  Mean¬ 
while  your  son  is  about  to  be  dressed,  and  there 
is  hardly  room  for  three  men  in  one  bedroom.” 

'  So  Frank  went  down  into  the  darkening  room 
below,  and,  mechanically  lighting  his  pipe,  he  sat 
with  his  elbows  upon  his  knees  and  stared  out  into 
the  gathering  gloom,  where  one  bright  evening  star 


THE  LAST  NOTE  OF  THE  DUET. 


331 


twinkled  in  a  violet  sky.  The  gentle  hush  of  the 
gloaming  was  around  him,  and  some  late  bird  was 
calling  outside  among  the  laurels.  Above  he  heard 
the  shuffling  of  feet,  the  splashing  of  water,  and 
then  above  it  all  those  thin  glutinous  cries,  his 
voice,  the  voice  of  this  new  man  with  all  a  man’s 
possibilities  for  good  and  for  evil  who  had  taken 
up  his  dwelling  with  them.  And  as  he  listened 
to  those  cries  a  gentle  sadness  was  mixed  with  his 
joy,  for  he  felt  that  things  were  now  forever 
changed — that  whatever  sweet  harmonies  of  life 
might  still  be  awaiting  him,  from  this  hour  onward 
they  might  form  themselves  into  the  subtlest  and 
loveliest  of  chords,  but  it  must  always  be  as  a  trio, 
and  never  as  the  dear  duet  of  the  past. 


XXII. 


THE  TRIO. 

(Extract  from  a  letter  to  the  author  from  Mrs,  Frank  Crosse.) 

“  It  is  very  singular  that  you  should  say  with 
such  confidence  that  you  know  that  our  baby  is  a 
splendid  one,  and  further  on  you  say  that  in  some 
ways  it  differs  from  any  other  baby.  It  is  so  true, 
but  neither  Frank  nor  I  can  imagine  how  you 
knew.  We  both  think  it  so  clever  of  you  to  have 
found  it  out !  When  you  write  to  us,  do  please  tell 
us  how  you  discovered  it. 

“  I  want  to  tell  you  something  about  baby,  since 
you  so  kindly  ask  me,  but  Frank  says  there  is  no 
use  my  beginning,  as  there  is  only  one  quire  of 
paper  in  the  house.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  shall 
be  quite  short,  which  is  not  because  I  have  not 
plenty  to  say — you  can  not  think  what  a  dear  he 
is! — but  because  he  may  wake  up  at  any  moment. 
After  that  happens  I  can  only  write  with  one  hand, 
while  I  wave  a  feather  fan  with  the  other,  and  it 

is  so  difficult  to  say  exactly  what  you  mean.  In 
332 


THE  TRIO. 


333 


any  case,  you  know  that  I  have  not  the  habit  of 
collecting  and  writing  down  my  ideas,  so  please 
forgive  me  if  this  seems  a  stupid  letter.  Frank 
could  have  done  it  splendidly.  But  lie  has  so  many 
sweet  and  quite  remarkable  ways  that  I  ought  to 
be  able  to  put  some  of  them  down  for  you. 

“  It  will  be  easier,  perhaps,  if  I  imagine  a  day 
of  him — and  one  of  his  days  is  very  much  like  an¬ 
other.  No  one  could  ever  say  that  he  was  irregu¬ 
lar  in  his  habits.  First  thing  in  the  morning  I  go 
over  to  his  cot  to  see  if  he  is  awake  yet — though, 
of  course,  I  know  that  he  can’t  be,  for  he  always 
lets  us  know — the  darling!  However,  I  go  over 
all  the  same,  and  I  find  everything  quiet,  and  noth¬ 
ing  visible  of  baby  but  a  tiny  turned-up  nose.  It 
is  so  exactly  Frank’s  nose,  only  that  his  is  curved 
the  other  way.  Then  as  I  bend  over  his  cot  there 
is  a  small  sigh,  such  a  soft,  comfortable  sound! 
Then  a  sort  of  earthquake  takes  place  under  the 
eider-down,  and  a  tightly  clinched  fist  appears  and 
is  waved  in  the  air.  He  has  such  a  pleasant,  cheer¬ 
ful  way  of  waving  his  fists!  Frank  says  in  his 
sporting  slang  that  he  would  take  on  anything  of 
his  weight  in  England  in  a  two-foot  ring.  Then 
one  eye  is  half  opened,  as  if  he  were  looking  round 
to  see  if  it  were  safe  to  open  the  other  one,  and  then 
he  gives  a  long,  sorrowful  wail  as  he  realizes  that 


334 


A  DUET. 


liis  bottle  is  not  where  he  left  it  when  he  went  to 
sleep.  In  a  moment  he  is  in  my  arms  and  quite 
happy  again,  playing  with  the  lace  round  the  neck 
of  my  pink  dressing-gown.  When  he  finds  that  his 
nice  warm  bath  is  all  ready  for  him,  he  becomes 
quite  jovial,  and  laughs  and  chuckles  to  himself. 
Something  awfully  funny  must  have  happened  to 
him  before  ever  he  came  into  this  world  at  all,  for 
nothing  that  has  occurred  since  could  account  for 
the  intense  expression  of  amusement  that  one  can 
often  see  in  his  eyes.  When  he  laughs,  Frank  says 
that  he  looks  like  some  jolly  old  clean-shaven,  tooth¬ 
less  friar — so  chubby  and  good-humoured.  lie 
takes  the  greatest  interest  in  everything  in  the 
room,  watches  the  nurse  moving  about,  looks  out 
of  the  window,  and  examines  my  hair  and  my  dress 
very  critically.  He  loves  to  see  untidy  hair,  and 
a  bright  tie  or  a  brooch  will  often  catch  his  eye 
and  make  him  smile.  Ilis  smile  is  the  most  won¬ 
derful  thing!  As  he  lies  gazing  with  his  great  seri¬ 
ous  blue  eyes,  his  whole  face  suddenly  lights  up, 
his  mouth  turns  up  at  one  corner  in  the  most  irre¬ 
sistible  way,  and  his  cheeks  all  go  off  into  dimples. 
He  looks  so  sweet  and  innocent,  and  at  the  same 
time  so  humorous  and  wicked,  that  his  foolish 
mother  wants  to  laugh  at  him  and  to  weep  over  him 
at  the  same  time. 


THE  TRIO. 


335 


“  Then  conies  his  hath,  and  there  is  a  sad  dis¬ 
play  of  want  of  faith  upon  his  part.  He  enjoys 
the  process,  but  he  is  convinced  that  only  his  own 
exertions  keep  him  from  drowning;  so  his  little 
fists  are  desperately  clinched,  his  legs  kick  up  and 
down  the  whole  time,  and  he  watches  every  move¬ 
ment  of  mother  and  nurse  with  suspicion.  He  en¬ 
joys  being  dressed,  and  smiles  at  first,  and  then 
he  suddenly  remembers  that  he  has  not  had  his 
breakfast.  Then  the  smile  vanishes,  the  small 
round  face  grows  so  red  and  angry  and  all  covered 
with  little  wrinkles,  and  there  is  a  dismal  wailing — 
poor  darling!  If  the  bottle  is  not  instantly  forth¬ 
coming,  he  will  howl  loudly  and  beat  the  air  with 
his  fists  until  he  gets  it.  He  does  remind  me  so 
of  his  father  sometimes !  He  is  always  hunting  for 
his  bottle,  and  will  seize  my  finger,  or  a  bit  of  my 
dress,  or  anything,  and  carry  it  to  his  mouth,  and 
when  he  finds  it  isn’t  what  he  wants,  he  throws 
it  away  very  angrily.  When,  finally,  he  does  get 
the  bottle,  he  becomes  at  once  the  most  contented 
being  in  the  whole  world,  and  sucks  away  with 
such  great,  long  pulls,  and  such  dear  little  grunts 
in  between!  Then  afterward,  a  well-washed,  well- 
fed  atom,  he  is  ready  to  look  about  him  and  ob¬ 
serve  things.  I  am  sure  that  he  has  his  father’s 
brains,  and  that  he  is  storing  up  all  sorts  of  im- 


336 


A  DUET. 


pressions  and  observations  for  future  use,  for  be 
notices  everything.  I  used  to  tliink  that  babies 
were  stupid  and  indifferent — and  perhaps  other 
babies  are — but  he  is  never  indifferent.  Sometimes 
he  is  pleased  and  amused,  and  sometimes  angry  and 
sometimes  gravely  interested,  but  he  is  always  wide 
awake  and  taking  things  in.  When  I  go  into  his 
room,  he  always  looks  at  my  head,  and  if  I  have 
my  garden  hat  with  the  flowers  he  is  so  pleased! 
He  much  prefers  chiffon  to  silk. 

“  Almost  the  first  thing  that  struck  me  when 
I  saw  him,  and  it  strikes  me  more  and  more,  was 
how  could  any  one  have  got  the  idea  of  original 
sin.  The  people  who  believe  in  it  can  never  have 
looked  into  a  baby’s  eyes.  I  love  to  watch  them, 
and  sometimes  fancy  I  can  see  a  faint  shade  of 
reminiscence  in  them,  as  if  he  had  still  some  mem¬ 
ories  of  another  life  and  could  tell  me  things  if  he 
could  only  speak.  One  day,  as  I  sat  beside  his 
cot —  Oh,  dear,  I  hear  his  Majesty  calling!  So 
sorry!  Good-bye.  Yours  very  truly, 

“  Maude  Crosse. 

“  P.  S. — I  have  not  time  to  read  this  over,  but 
I  may  say,  in  case  I  omitted  it  before,  that  he  really 
is  a  very  remarkable  baby.” 

THE  END.  W 


t 


•*. 


